51

Marianna.

Marco is asleep.

Not "dozed off" asleep. Not "resting my eyes" asleep. Full, mouth-open, snoring-like-a-chainsaw asleep, sprawled across the guest bed like a starfish that's given up on life.

Duane carried him there.

Literally carried him—one arm under his knees, one behind his back, like Marco weighs nothing instead of 185 pounds of muscle and bad decisions. I watched from the hallway, pressed against the wall, as Duane navigated the corner with the casual competence of someone who's probably carried drunk teammates before.

He didn't ask for help.

He didn't look at me.

Just deposited Marco on the bed, removed his shoes with surprising gentleness, and left the room.

"Night," he said, passing me in the hallway.

One word. Flat. Final.

"Night," I echoed.

And then we went to our separate rooms like responsible adults who definitely did not spend dinner with his hand on my knee while my brother described us getting together as "hilarious."

That was forty minutes ago.

I know it's forty minutes because I've been lying here counting ceiling tiles and checking my phone and trying to convince my body that it's tired, that it should sleep, that tomorrow is a work day and I need to be functional.

My body is not convinced.

My body is humming.

That's the only word for it. Humming. Like there's an electric current running just beneath my skin, making everything hyperaware and oversensitive and awake in a way that has nothing to do with insomnia and everything to do with the fact that Duane Richter's hand was on my knee for an hour and a half and I can still feel the weight of it, the heat of it, the casual possessiveness of it.

I throw off the covers.

I'm just going to get water.

That's all.

Just water.

I'm not going out there hoping he's awake. I'm not going out there because some deranged part of my brain thinks maybe he's thinking about me the way I'm thinking about him. I'm not going out there because I want—

I don't know what I want.

(Liar.)

I pull on his hoodie. The $340 one. It falls to mid-thigh, drowning me in black fabric that smells like his laundry detergent and something underneath that's just... him.

The apartment is dark when I step into the hallway.

Not pitch black. Miami never gets pitch black. The city lights filter through those massive windows, painting everything in shades of blue-grey, like the whole world is underwater.

I can hear Marco snoring from the guest room. The sound is rhythmic. Reliable. The acoustic confirmation that my brother is unconscious and will remain unconscious for at least six more hours.

The living room is empty.

Good.

I pad toward the kitchen on bare feet, the marble cold enough to make me suck in a breath.

I'm reaching for a glass when I see him.

Duane.

Standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, backlit by the city, looking out at Miami like it's a problem he's trying to solve.

He's still dressed. Jeans. Black t-shirt. Bare feet.

He hasn't heard me.

I should say something. Should announce my presence. Should—

"I know you're there."

His voice cuts through the silence. Low. Rough. Not looking at me.

"I was just—" I hold up the glass even though he's not looking. "Water."

"Mm."

That sound. That infuriating non-word that could mean anything or nothing.

I fill the glass at the sink. The water runs too loud in the quiet. My hands are shaking slightly and I hate that they're shaking, hate that my body is betraying me even now.

I should go back to my room.

I should drink this water and go back to my room and not—

"Marianna."

I freeze. Glass halfway to my lips.

He's still not looking at me.

"Go back to your room."

The words hit like a slap.

"I was just—"

"I know what you were doing." Now he turns. And oh—

Oh.

His eyes are dark. Darker than usual. And there's something in them, something I've never seen before, something that looks like barely contained—

"You were getting water," he says. Each word deliberate. Controlled. "And now you've got it. So go back to your room."

"I'm not drunk." I set the glass down on the counter.

"You should go," Duane says again.

But he's moving.

Crossing the living room in three strides, all that controlled grace dissolving into something more urgent, more hungry.

He stops a foot away from me.

Close enough that I can see his chest rising and falling faster than it should. Close enough that I can smell him—soap and something darker, something that makes my hindbrain light up like a Christmas tree.

And Duane catches me.

His mouth is on mine before I can process what's happening.

His hands are in my hair, tilting my head back, and he's kissing me like he's been dying to do this, like he's been holding back for weeks and something finally snapped.

I make a sound. Not words. Just a noise from somewhere deep in my throat, and he swallows it, his tongue sliding against mine, and—

This is my back against the kitchen counter, his hips pinning me in place, his hand sliding down my spine and pulling me closer, closer, like close isn't close enough.

"Duane—" I gasp when he pulls back long enough to breathe.

He doesn't answer. Just looks at me with those dark eyes.

I kiss him back. Putting everything into it that I can't say out loud: yes, please, more, don't stop, don't you dare fucking stop—

We're moving.

I don't know who moves first. Maybe we both do. Maybe it's mutual. But suddenly we're stumbling toward the hallway, his hands under the hoodie, my hands fisted in his shirt, mouths still connected like breaking apart would be physically painful.

We hit the wall.

My back against marble, his weight against me, and it should feel like too much—I should freeze, should disconnect, should do what I always do—

But I don't.

I arch into him.

Pull him closer.

Make sounds I've never made before, breathy and desperate and completely undignified.

"Fuck," Duane breathes against my neck. His mouth is hot there, teeth scraping skin, and I feel it everywhere. "Fuck, Marianna—"

"Don't stop."

The words come out broken. Pleading.

"I won't."

We're moving again.

Down the hallway. Past Marco's room—the snoring still audible, still rhythmic, still oblivious.

My door.

He pushes it open.

We stumble inside.