6

Marianna

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses against your eardrums, makes you hyperaware of your own breathing, your own heartbeat.

I slip out of the guest room, padding barefoot across the cold marble floors. The hallway is dark—no lights on anywhere except the faint glow coming from under my door.

Does he just... sit in the dark? Like a vampire? Like some kind of brooding creature of the night who doesn't require basic illumination?

I'm halfway to the kitchen—I think it's the kitchen, everything in this apartment looks the same—when I hear it.

A thud. Low and heavy, coming from somewhere deeper in the apartment.

I freeze.

"Duane?"

My voice echoes off the high ceilings, swallowed by all that empty space. No response.

Another thud. Then another. Rhythmic now, like—

Like someone hitting something. Over and over.

"Duane?"

Still nothing.

I find the light switch on the wall, flooding the hallway with harsh brightness. Follow the sound past a living room that looks like it's never been lived in, past a dining table that could seat twelve, past closed doors that I don't dare open.

The sounds are coming from a room at the end of the hall. The door is slightly ajar.

I push it open.

It's a home gym. Of course he has a home gym. State-of-the-art equipment, mirrors on every wall, the works. And in the center of it, illuminated only by the city lights streaming through the window, is Duane.

Shirtless.

Hitting a punching bag like it personally offended him.

My brain short-circuits.

I've seen shirtless men before. I've dated shirtless men. I've been thoroughly unimpressed by shirtless men, because that's what my body does—it stays frozen, disconnected, uninterested, no matter how objectively attractive the man in question might be.

But this—

He's all lean muscle and controlled power, sweat gleaming on skin that looks like it was carved from something harder than flesh. His back muscles shift with each punch, shoulders rolling, every movement precise and brutal and beautiful in a way that makes my mouth go dry.

The city lights paint shadows across his torso, highlighting the ridges of his abs, the cut of his hips disappearing into low-slung shorts.

He's not working out.

He's destroying something. Exorcising something. Each punch lands with a force that seems disproportionate to a simple exercise routine, and there's something in his posture—something wound too tight, something barely contained—that makes my chest ache for reasons I don't understand.

Who works out in complete darkness at—I check the phone—eleven thirty at night?

He spins suddenly, fist still raised, and finds me standing in the doorway.

His face is exactly the same as always. Cold. Closed off. The only indication that he's been exerting himself is the sheen of sweat on his skin and the slight elevation in his breathing.

"Something you need?"

His voice is flat. Unwelcoming. Like I've intruded on something private—which, to be fair, I probably have.

"I heard—" I start, then stop. What am I supposed to say? I heard you beating the shit out of a punching bag in the dark and got concerned for your mental health? "I heard noises. Wanted to make sure everything was okay."

"Everything's fine."

It's clearly not. But he's looking at me like I'm a problem he doesn't have the patience for, and I'm suddenly very aware that I'm standing here in his clothes, his scent wrapped around me, staring at his bare chest like I've never seen a man's body before.

"Right," I say. "Okay. Good."

I should leave. Should turn around and go back to the guest room and pretend this never happened.

Instead, my stupid mouth opens and says: "For the next three days, could you maybe put a shirt on? Just—when you're in common areas. As a courtesy."

One eyebrow rises. Slowly. Deliberately.

"Does my body make you uncomfortable, Marianna?"

The way he says my name—my full name, all four syllables, like he's tasting each one—makes something clench low in my stomach.

"No," I say, too quickly. "I just—it's polite. That's all. Basic roommate etiquette."

"We're not roommates."

"Temporary cohabitants, then. Whatever. The point stands."

He's still looking at me. That dark, unreadable gaze traveling slowly down my body—his shirt on my frame, his sweatpants pooling at my feet—and then back up to my face.

"You're wearing my clothes."

It's not a question. Not an accusation. Just a statement of fact, delivered in that low, rough voice that shouldn't make me feel like I'm standing on the edge of something dangerous.

"You left them for me." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Did you want me to walk around naked instead?"

Something flickers in his eyes. There and gone, too fast to name.

"No," he says. Then, after a pause: "Go to bed, Marianna."

"I'm not a child. You can't just order me around."

"Apparently I can. You followed me from the airport."

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.

He's right. Infuriatingly, impossibly right.

"Fine," I say. "I'm going. But the shirt thing still stands."

I turn and walk away before he can respond. Force myself not to look back, not to see if he's watching me leave.

I can feel his eyes on me anyway. Burning into my back, tracking every step.

When I reach the guest room, I close the door behind me and lean against it, heart pounding, breath coming faster than it should.

This is bad. This is so, so bad.