chapter 3 the morning after
932 Words
CHAPTER 3 — The Morning After
The light in Marcus’s apartment wasn’t gentle. It came in sharp, angled slices through the tall factory windows, cutting across the floorboards and the edge of the bed like it had something to prove. Lena blinked against it, her eyes adjusting slowly, her body reminding her of every place he’d touched her.
Marcus wasn’t beside her.
She sat up, the sheet slipping down her chest, and listened. The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of a train somewhere in the city. Her heart kicked once, hard, before she heard it — the low murmur of a voice.
His voice.
She slid out of bed, her feet hitting the cold floor, and padded toward the doorway. Marcus stood in the kitchen, shirtless, jeans slung low on his hips, phone pressed to his ear. His back was to her, muscles shifting under his skin as he reached for a mug.
“No,” he said, voice low, controlled. “Not today. I told you I’m off today.”
A pause. His jaw tightened.
“I said no.”
He hung up without waiting for a response.
Lena leaned against the doorframe, watching him. He didn’t turn right away. He poured coffee into the mug, steam rising in a thin ribbon, and only then did he glance over his shoulder.
“You’re awake.”
His voice was different now — not the rough, sleep‑heavy tone from the night, not the low command from the alley. Something quieter. Something that didn’t know what to do with her being there.
She stepped into the kitchen, the sheet wrapped around her like a makeshift dress. “Who was that?”
He handed her the mug. “Work.”
She took it, fingers brushing his. “Thought you said you were off.”
“I am.” He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “They don’t listen.”
She sipped the coffee. It was strong, dark, exactly what she needed. “Do you have to go?”
“No.” His eyes stayed on her. “Not unless I choose to.”
“And are you choosing to?”
He didn’t answer immediately. He watched her over the rim of his own mug, studying her like he was trying to decide what she meant — not last night, but now, in the morning light, with her hair messy and her neck marked and her eyes still soft from sleep.
“No,” he said finally. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She felt something loosen in her chest.
He set his mug down. “You hungry?”
She nodded. “A little.”
He opened a cabinet, pulled out a box of pasta, then paused. “Actually… sit.”
She sat at the counter, sheet still wrapped around her, watching him move through the kitchen with a kind of quiet efficiency. He boiled water, cracked eggs, grated cheese. It wasn’t fancy, but it was deliberate — like he was making something for her, not just making food.
“You cook?” she asked.
“Sometimes.”
“For who?”
He didn’t look up. “Me.”
She smiled. “And now me?”
His hands paused for half a second. “Yeah.”
He plated the pasta and set it in front of her. She took a bite. It was good — simple, warm, comforting in a way she hadn’t expected from a man who carried a gun like a second skin.
Marcus leaned against the counter again, watching her eat. “You’re quiet.”
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
She met his eyes. “Last night.”
His jaw flexed. “You regret it?”
“No.”
He exhaled once, slow, like he’d been holding that breath since she woke up. “Good.”
She set her fork down. “Do you?”
His eyes didn’t move from hers. “No.”
The silence stretched, warm and heavy.
Then he said, “You should get dressed.”
She blinked. “Are you kicking me out?”
“No.” He pushed off the counter, walking toward her. “I just want you dressed before I tell you something.”
Her pulse jumped. “Tell me what?”
He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat from his skin. “Someone’s going to come by later.”
Her fingers tightened around the sheet. “Who?”
“A friend.” His voice dropped. “He doesn’t know you. And he doesn’t need to.”
“Is it dangerous?”
Marcus’s eyes softened — barely, but enough. “Not for you.”
She swallowed. “Should I leave?”
“No.” His hand brushed her shoulder, thumb tracing the bruise he’d left. “I want you here.”
Her breath caught. “Why?”
He didn’t answer right away. He looked at her like he was weighing something again — the same look he’d given her in the alley, in the bed, in the doorway at three in the morning.
“Because you stayed,” he said. “And I don’t want you gone yet.”
Her chest tightened. “Okay.”
He nodded once, decisive. “Get dressed. I’ll explain the rest.”
She stood, the sheet slipping as she walked toward the bedroom. She didn’t look back, but she felt his eyes on her — not hungry, not possessive.
Something else.
Something she wasn’t ready to name yet.
- Writer
