The days following the “agreement” were a masterclass in emotional endurance.
Working with Marco was like trying to tame a hurricane with your bare hands. A handsome, muscular hurricane with blue eyes that could, at the same time, infuriate me deeply and make my stomach flip.
Our new dynamic settled into a rhythm of advances and retreats. In the morning, I’d arrive at the small office that became our HQ. He was already there, his posture rigid in front of his laptop, as if the entire world depended on that email he was typing. A heavy silence.
“Coffee?” I’d ask, holding up the thermos I’d brought from the main kitchen.
He’d look up, an ambiguous grunt that could be a “yes” or a “no, but I’ll take it because I’m tired.” I’d pour his mug—black, strong, no sugar—and set it beside his mous
