45

Marianna.

I close my eyes.

The stitches throb. My head aches. My chest is full of things I can't name and don't want to examine.

Duane's breathing is steady beside me. In. Out.

I try to match it. Breathe when he breathes. Slow my heart rate down from hummingbird to something more human.

It doesn't work.

My brain won't shut off. It's doing that thing where it replays the same moment over and over, examining it from every angle .

Was that real desire?

It's like being colorblind your whole life and then someone shows you red for the first time, except you can't trust that it's actually red.

Duane shifts beside me. His hand—the one that squeezed mine and let go—is resting on the floor now, close enough that I could reach out and touch it if I wanted to.

My hands fist in the sheets instead.

The expensive sheets that I'm bleeding on.

God, I'm tired. Tired of the constant mental accounting. Tired of second-guessing every emotion.

Just exist for a few hours without turning yourself into a balance sheet.

Easy for him to say—

Sleep catches me mid-spiral, dragging me under like a riptide.

I dream about numbers.

Not the sexy kind of dream where Duane Richter does things to me that my conscious mind won't allow. Not the nightmare kind where my father's hands—

No. Just numbers.

$3,466.67 floating in space. Growing. Multiplying. Turning into $3,484.67 after the Uber to the hospital. $3,497.67 after the one back. Each digit glowing red like a warning light on a dashboard.

The numbers have teeth. They're eating me. Starting with my fingers—the ones that touched his shirt, that pulled him closer—and working their way up.

I try to run but my legs are made of debt. Heavy. Immovable. Sinking into a floor that's soft like quicksand and smells like his cologne.

When I open my mouth to scream, only one word comes out:

Sorry.

I wake up gasping.

Sunlight is stabbing through the floor-to-ceiling windows with the kind of aggressive cheerfulness that feels personally offensive at—I check my phone—6:47 AM.

The space where Duane was sitting is empty.

Jesus Christ, I'm a mess.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes—carefully, avoiding the stitches—and try to pull myself together.

Today's agenda：Don't cry. Don't vomit. Don't think about how his mouth felt on mine.

Go to work. Pretend to be a functional human being. Don't die.

Low bar. I can clear a low bar.

Probably.

The apartment is too quiet.

I can hear everything: the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic, the whisper of the air conditioning, and underneath it all—muffled but unmistakable—the rhythmic thud of fists hitting leather.

The door is open.

I stop in the hallway. Hidden. Watching.

He's shirtless.

Latissimus dorsi. Infraspinatus. Teres major. The rhomboids.

I've touched those muscles. Professionally. Clinically. With gloved hands and professional boundaries and absolutely zero thoughts about what they'd feel like without the latex barrier.

Liar.

I've thought about it. Late at night. In the shower. In those half-awake moments when my brain hasn't fully loaded its defense systems yet.

Each punch is controlled. Precise. The bag barely swings.

Duane pivots. Throws a combination. His bruise from Monaco is still visible—faded to that yellowish-green that means it's healing—but he's not favoring it. Not protecting it.

Of course not. Protection is for people who value their own physical wellbeing.

The sound I make—some pathetic, involuntary inhalation—gives me away.

He stops mid-punch. Turns.

Our eyes meet.

For exactly two seconds.

Then it's gone. Shuttered. The mask slams back down with almost audible force.

"How's the head?" Clinical. Distant. Like he didn't spend last night sitting on my floor. Like he didn't kiss me and then take it back.

"Fine," I lie. The stitches are throbbing in time with my heartbeat. "Barely hurts."

"Mm."

"Thank you," I force out. "—for helping."

He nods once. Turns back to the punching bag.

Conversation over.

Dismissed.

I retreat to the kitchen on unsteady legs, feeling like I've just failed a test I didn't know I was taking.

The ibuprofen goes down with tap water. I need to shower. Change.

There's a knock on the bedroom door.

My heart stops.

"Yeah?" My voice cracks.

The door opens. Duane's dressed now—thank god—in workout clothes that somehow look expensive despite being just black shorts and a black t-shirt.

He's holding a shopping bag.

"These came yesterday," he says. Doesn't quite meet my eyes. "Figured you'd need them."

He sets the bag on the bed and leaves before I can respond.

I stare at the bag like it might explode.

Then I open it.

Clothes. Women's clothes. In my size.

Dark jeans. A simple blouse. A cardigan. Underwear—still in the package, thank god, because the thought of him buying me underwear makes me want to dissolve into the floor.

There's no receipt. No tags. Nothing to indicate how much this cost.

Another number I can't calculate. Another debt I can't quantify.

I should be grateful. I am grateful.

But gratitude tastes like shame when you're drowning in it.

I get dressed. The clothes fit perfectly.

Kinetic Performance Center looks different today.

Or maybe I look different.

The front desk guy—Marcus—does a double-take when I walk in.

"Whoa. You okay?"

"Fell. I'm fine."

"That looks like it hurt."

"It did." I sign in. "But I'm medicated and employed, so we're calling it a win."

He laughs. "Fair enough. Oliver's already in Suite 2. He's been asking about you."

Of course he has.

Because Oliver Hale is sunshine personified and probably thinks basic human concern is a normal thing to express.

I make my way to Recovery Suite 2. My head is pounding despite the ibuprofen. The stitches feel tight. My skin feels tight. Everything feels wrong in that specific way where you're not sure if it's physical pain or psychological distress or just the general condition of being alive.

Oliver's already on the table when I walk in.

He takes one look at me and his face does this complicated thing where concern and curiosity fight for dominance.

"Marianna!" He sits up. "Holy shit, what happened to your face?"

I touch my forehead reflexively. "Fell," I say. Again. For the hundredth time. "Stupid accident. I'm fine."

There's that word. Fine. My tell.

"That looks like it hurt," Oliver says.

"It did. Does. But I'm medicated and employed, so we're calling it a win."

I'm recycling my own material now.

Oliver grins. That easy, uncomplicated expression that belongs to someone whose biggest problem is probably "which color should my next hypercar be?"

"Fair enough." He lies back down on the table. "So. How's your week been? Besides the face injury. And the whole internet losing its mind about us."

Right. The photos. The speculation. The fact that half of T*****r thinks we're dating and the other half is writing conspiracy theories about my intentions.

"I've had better weeks," I admit.

"Yeah, me too. Mum called. She's very concerned about whether I'm dating you." He's grinning like this is funny. Like his mother's concern is amusing rather than mortifying. "Apparently half of T*****r thinks we're already engaged."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. She's thrilled. Says you look 'sensible.'" He makes air quotes. "Which is high praise, coming from her. My last girlfriend was a model—Mum thought she looked 'hungry.'"

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. Actual laughter. It hurts my stitches but I don't care because for exactly 2.3 seconds, I feel almost normal.

"Your mum sounds terrifying."

"She is. But in a good way. Like a very polite drill sergeant." He stretches out fully. "So, speaking of terrifying—how's working with Veloce going?"

My hands freeze on his shoulder.

"What?"