Chapter 34 Valentina
VALENTINA
Iwas elbow-deep in a Jersey Shore rerun, still wearing the sleep shirt I’d stolen from Marco three nights ago. I was debating whether I could justify eating Cheetos for dinner when there was a knock at the door.
Three quick, polite taps.
Which was already weird.
Nobody who knew me well enough to knock politely ever knocked at all.
Then I remembered I wasn’t the only person who lived here.
I glanced at the door, then at the TV. Pauly D was screaming something about hair gel while I weighed my options. Ignore it, or answer and risk a Jehovah’s Witness?
The peephole was covered, which felt intentional.
Who covered the peephole unless they were actively trying to give me a reason to imagine all the different ways I could die?
My brain did a quick mental scroll through every possible horror scenario: man with a knife, man with a badge, man with a Bible. All bad.
Still, against my better judgment and literally every true-crime podcast I’ve ever listened to, I opened the door.
And there a stranger was.
Tall. Broad. Drenched from the rain.
He looked at me like I was the surprise. Like he’d been expecting someone else entirely and couldn’t figure out what kind of admin error had led him here.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said immediately, and “ma’am” made my left eye twitch. He said it like Marco did. “I must have the wrong house. Have a good day.”
“Who are you looking for?” I asked, crossing my arms and leaning against the doorframe, because now I was curious and suspicious and still annoyed I’d had to pause my show.
“Marco,” he said, pausing slightly. “Marco Grey.”
I blinked.
And then, because my mouth always worked faster than my brain, I said, “He’s at work.”
“Oh, okay.” He nodded once politely. “I’m Tommy,” he said, extending a hand.
His grip was strong. Too strong. Like someone who didn’t know how to offer anything halfway. His hands were calloused, his build solid enough that I was immediately convinced he could carry three grown adults up a mountain without breaking a sweat.
Light brown hair, cut short. He looked military. Definitely military. But the quiet kind. His hoodie was white, but the shirt underneath was black with blocky gray letters that read “ARMY,” confirming my suspicions.
I stared at him for a second longer than I probably should’ve, because who just showed up like this? Who showed up looking like that? And why hadn’t Marco told me anyone was coming?
“Well, he’s not home,” I repeated, stepping back slightly. “And he wouldn’t want me to let strange men in while he’s not here.”
Something about that made him smirk. “Good policy.”
I nodded. “But if I let you in, are you going to kill me?”
He looked shocked. “Uh, negative.”
“Good.” I stepped aside.
Tommy’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he didn’t say anything else as he stepped inside. I closed the door, half-annoyed at myself for letting in a stranger who could probably snap me like a toothpick if he felt so inclined.
He didn’t feel inclined, apparently. He just stood politely, like he wasn’t quite sure where to put himself.
I gestured to the couch. “Have a seat, I guess. You want anything? I was gonna make dinner, but . . .” I glanced sheepishly at the bowl of cereal on the coffee table. “Plans changed.”
He smiled slightly, like he was trying not to laugh. “No, thanks. I won’t stay long. Just needed to drop something off for Marco.”
“What is it?” I asked immediately, unable to stop myself. Curiosity was a persistent disease of mine.
“It’s a gift.”
That caught me off-guard. Marco didn’t exactly strike me as the type who inspired spontaneous gift-giving. Threats, sure. Paperwork, definitely. But presents?
“A gift for what?”
His eyes narrowed a little, almost amused. “His birthday.”
I blinked. “His what?”
“His birthday. It’s today.”
Today. It was Marco’s birthday—something he’d apparently decided was not worth mentioning.
I could feel the annoyance bubbling up inside me.
The fact I didn’t know irritated me more than it should.
It was such a Marco move to leave me out, withholding just enough information to make sure things never got too personal.
“Figures,” I muttered under my breath, shaking my head.
Tommy watched me. “So,” he started carefully, glancing around as if he were gathering context clues from my surroundings, “you’re, uh, Marco’s girlfriend?”
Girlfriend.
That was a dangerous word. It implied commitment, permanence, ownership—things Marco and I very deliberately avoided. I hesitated, playing it safe. I also wasn’t sure whether I was his secret or not.
“It’s not serious,” I said casually, shrugging as if it meant nothing even though it did. “Just . . . casual.”
Tommy’s eyebrows rose. “Casual,” he repeated slowly, eyes sliding meaningfully from the cereal bowl on my coffee table to the oversize shirt hanging off me.
I cleared my throat, fighting the urge to defend myself. “Yeah. Casual.”
“Sure,” he said dryly. “Looks casual.”
I ignored the mild judgment and crossed my arms, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “How do you know Marco?”
He gave a slight shrug. “Military. We served together for a while.”
Military?
Would you look at that—another thing the man had kept from me.
I didn’t want to look like the idiot who knew nothing about the guy she was sleeping with, let alone married to, so I nodded and asked, “How long did you serve for? What branch?”
“Almost ten years,” Tommy explained. “Six with Marco. Special Forces, mostly.”
“Oh,” I said, not knowing what else to say. Special Forces sounded serious—dangerous. Did that make Marco a war criminal? Probably not. Maybe.
Jesus, the only concrete thing I knew about him was that his favorite color was yellow.
Honestly, it was embarrassing. Marco probably had my dental records memorized, and I was still stuck trying to figure out if Special Forces meant he jumped out of planes or blew things up—or both.
“So,” I started again, desperate to sound like I had at least half a clue, “what do you do now? Also law, like Marco?”
Tommy shook his head, eyebrows lifting slightly as if the idea amused him. “No, still active. I’m just here to drag Marco back.”
“Drag him back?” I repeated, confused. “Like, into the military?”
“Not exactly. Back into physical therapy,” Tommy clarified, shifting in his seat and giving a dry smile.
“He’s supposed to be working on his recovery.
Instead he’s dodging his appointments and pretending everything’s fine, because he hates desk duty at the brig.
He just wants to be important in the field, not the office. ”
Of course he did. Marco would probably glue his leg back on if it ever fell off and just keep walking. The man was infuriatingly stubborn. I wasn’t exactly shocked.
“Physical therapy?” I asked, wondering if this had anything to do with his shoulder. Suddenly, my mouth felt dry, like I was hearing something I wasn’t supposed to. “What happened?”
“An accident. Marco took the hit for the team. His leg was pretty messed up. Should’ve been worse. But Marco’s a stubborn bastard.” Tommy laughed softly, shaking his head. “He’s fine though. Solid two hundred pounds of stubborn.”
I tried to picture it—Marco injured, Marco vulnerable, Marco in pain—but it didn’t compute in my head.
It felt wrong. Uncomfortable. And suddenly, irrationally, I was angry—at Tommy for telling me, at Marco for never having mentioned it, and at myself for caring enough to feel rattled in the first place.
I swallowed hard. “He never mentioned the army.”
Tommy’s smile left. “Marco doesn’t mention much.”
No, he didn’t. But now I couldn’t stop thinking about it—the scars Marco hid beneath his pressed shirts, the injuries he never talked about, the physical therapy I didn’t even know he didn’t attend. Marco, stubbornly hiding all the messy, broken parts of himself from everyone.
Especially from me.
“When was he supposed to be back in DC?”
“Uh,” he said, thinking. “Around Christmas, I think.”
My mouth fell. “That was eight months ago.”
“I know. He could’ve been done with physical four weeks ago if he were serious about it.”
I couldn’t help but connect the timelines.
We were married four weeks ago—the same time Marco should’ve been finishing physical therapy.
And Christmas? That was right when he’d started showing up everywhere, hovering in the background of my life like some mildly annoyed guardian angel.
Was it because of me, or had I just conveniently fit into his schedule of avoiding physical therapy?
God, it probably had nothing to do with me. It was probably his job. Or stubborn pride. Or boredom. Hell, knowing Marco, he might have genuinely forgotten he had an injury altogether.
“Did he say why?” I asked, trying not to sound as desperate as I felt.
Tommy shook his head, lips pressing into a thin line. “He doesn’t really tell anyone anything.”
Well, at least I wasn’t the only one Marco Grey was keeping out of the loop. That was weirdly comforting. Misery loves company, or whatever.
Still, it nagged at me. I hated that it mattered, but it did.
Marco was careful about everything. Too careful to just accidentally linger somewhere he didn’t want to be.
He had a reason—I just wished I knew whether it had anything to do with me or if I was projecting some deeply buried romantic fantasy onto a man who alphabetized his spice rack.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “Marco makes a brick wall look like an open book.”
Tommy laughed quietly. “That’s about right.”
“Guess it’s good to know it’s not personal,” I said, more to myself than to him.
But the thing was, it felt personal. I just wasn’t sure if that was good or bad yet.
I hesitated, suddenly feeling awkward about standing in the living room in Marco’s oversize shirt, talking to a stranger who apparently knew more about the man I’d married than I ever would.
“You want to stay? Marco usually works late.”