Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
étienne
I’d been living in Marco’s townhouse for almost a week, and somehow it already felt more like home than my apartment ever had.
The thought hit me as I sprawled across Marco’s couch, controller in hand, my sock-covered feet propped comfortably in his warm lap while I navigated my character through some alien wasteland.
He didn’t even seem to notice anymore—just sat there with his tablet, scrolling through game tape from our last game against New York, occasionally shifting his leg to get more comfortable under the weight of my feet.
This was us now. This ease we’d fallen into without discussing it, without any awkward tension from me invading his personal space.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table, and I grabbed it one-handed without pausing my game. Landlord. Finally. I paused the game and sat up slightly. I answered the call, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder. “Yeah, this is étienne.”
Marco glanced up from his tablet and shifted his attention to me.
I listened to my landlord drone on about moisture levels and cleaning and renovation timelines, and my stomach sank with every word. “Uh-huh. Right. And that’s the fastest you can—okay. Yeah. No, I understand. Thanks.” I ended the call and set my phone down, staring at it for a moment.
“Well?” Marco asked.
“Two to three months.” I ran my hand through my hair. “For the cleaning and renovations.”
His jaw tightened, that muscle jumping the way it did when he was trying to stay neutral about something that bothered him.
Two to three months. I’d been hoping for a few weeks. Maybe a month at most. Two to three months was… a long time to be living in someone else’s home. A long time to be imposing, no matter what Marco said about it being fine. “That’s longer than I thought,” I said, still processing.
“Yeah.”
I pulled my feet off his lap and sat up properly, setting the controller on the coffee table. The loss of contact felt wrong, but this conversation needed me to be serious, not draped across him like a lazy cat.
“I should probably look into getting another place,” I said. “Short-term rental or something. Extended stay hotel, maybe.”
Marco’s head snapped up, his dark eyes sharp. “Why would you do that?”
“Because two to three months is a long time, man. I don’t want to—”
“Don’t.” He set his tablet aside and gave me his full attention. “Don’t say you’re imposing. We’ve been over this.”
“But—”
“You’re staying here.” His voice had that edge to it, the one that meant he’d already made up his mind and arguing would be pointless. “I have the space. You’re already settled in. Finding another place would be stupid and expensive and completely unnecessary.”
I studied his face and looked for signs that he was just being polite, that he was secretly counting down the days until I was gone. But all I saw was stubborn determination, the same look he got on the ice when he held a line and nothing was getting past him.
“You’re sure?” I asked.
“I’m sure.”
Warmth settled in my gut. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude. Or something else I wasn’t ready to examine too closely.
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks. I mean it. This is—you’re saving my ass here.”
“You’d do the same for me.”
I would. Without question. But somehow, I didn’t think it would feel the same, having Marco in my space versus being in his. My apartment had always felt temporary, impersonal. A place to sleep and keep my stuff, but not really a home.
This, though… this felt different.
It had started small. That first morning, I’d woken up at six thirty out of habit, padding downstairs in sweatpants that still smelled faintly of smoke despite two washes overnight.
I’d made coffee because I needed it to function and because Marco’s kitchen was nicer than mine had ever been—all granite counters and stainless-steel appliances and cabinet space organized in a way that actually made sense.
Ten minutes later, Marco had appeared. Hair sticking up on one side, scruff heavy, wearing flannel pajama pants and a worn Glaciers T-shirt that had seen better days.
The moment he’d entered the kitchen, his gaze had landed on me—shirtless, sitting at the counter—and his steps stuttered.
Just for a heartbeat. Then he’d looked away quickly, eyes fixed firmly on the coffee maker as he crossed the kitchen.
He’d grunted something that might have been “morning,” poured himself coffee, and sat down at the kitchen island with his phone.
We’d sat there in silence for twenty minutes. Just drinking coffee, scrolling through our respective newsfeeds, without needing to fill the quiet with conversation.
It should have been awkward. Should have felt intrusive, witnessing someone’s pre-caffeinated zombie state.
Instead, it had felt… right.
We’d fallen into that routine without discussing it.
Every morning, I’d make coffee, extra strong the way he liked it.
Every morning, Marco would appear ten minutes later.
Sometimes we’d talk—about the team, about upcoming games, about whatever drama was unfolding in the group chat—but mostly we’d just be quiet together, and that was enough.
The commute to the practice facility had become shared too. We’d pile into Marco’s Suburban because it made sense, because we were going to the same place at the same time.
Except it felt like more than that.
Our conversations on the drive flowed easily, with my feet on his dash while I scrolled through my playlist. He’d stop at the same coffee place every morning because their breakfast sandwiches were good and I’d mentioned liking them once.
Silence on the drive home after tough practices settled around us, both of us too tired to talk but content to just be.
My clothes had started mixing with his somewhere around day three.
I’d thrown a load of laundry in, not thinking about it, and when I’d gone to move it to the dryer, I’d found Marco had added his workout gear.
By day five, we’d just started combining loads.
It was more efficient, didn’t waste water, and made more sense than trying to keep everything separate.
I’d folded his underwear the previous night while watching TV.
Hadn’t thought twice about it until I was halfway through the stack and realized what I was doing.
I noticed the way the crotch on his briefs was stretched out and how little coverage there was in the back.
How the elastic of his boxer briefs was worn out from his thick thighs.
But I’d kept going, because that’s what you did when you lived with someone.
You folded their laundry. You split the household tasks.
You built a life together, even if it was temporary.
Marco cooked. That had been a revelation.
I’d expected… I didn’t know, bachelor food like we’d always eaten.
Pizza delivery and takeout. But the free night I’d been here, he’d made chicken marsala from scratch, and I’d stood in his kitchen watching him move around with skill and confidence, measuring and sautéing and plating like he’d been doing it his whole life.
“My mom,” he’d said when I’d asked, shrugging like it was nothing. “She made sure I knew how to feed myself properly.”
Italian mothers. Of course.
So, Marco cooked, and I did dishes, and we’d settled into that rhythm too.
Except I’d noticed that after I finished loading the dishwasher and putting everything away, Marco would come through and make one last swipe of the counters.
Like he couldn’t help himself. Like he needed them to be just a little cleaner, a little more organized.
I found it endearing. Didn’t tell him that, but I did.
My mess had gradually spread through his space despite my best efforts to contain it.
Shoes by the door because I kicked them off the second I walked in.
Jacket draped over the barstool because hanging it up felt like too much effort after a long practice.
Controller on the coffee table, water bottle on the counter, hoodie on the back of the couch.
Marco tidied behind me without comment. I’d watch him sometimes, see him automatically straighten my shoes, hang up my jacket, relocate my scattered belongings to more appropriate homes. He did it unconsciously, a little dance of disorder and order that we’d developed.
I should probably have felt bad about it and tried harder to keep my stuff contained, to be a better guest.
But he never said anything. Just quietly organized my chaos and moved on with his day.
And I let him, because something about it felt right. Felt like we’d figured out how to exist together in a way that worked for both of us.
“You’re overthinking.” Marco pulled me out of my thoughts.
I blinked and refocused on him. “What?”
“You get this look when you’re overthinking. Like you’re trying to solve a complicated math problem.” He picked up his tablet again, but his eyes stayed on me. “Whatever you’re worrying about, stop.”
“I’m not worrying.”
“You’re definitely worrying.”
I lifted the controller again, unpausing the game even though I wasn’t really focused on it anymore. “Just thinking about how long two months is.”
“It’ll go fast. Season’s ramping up and we’ve got a three-game roadie starting tomorrow.” He shifted on the couch, and my feet automatically found their way back to his lap. His hand settled on my ankle like it belonged there. “Besides, it’s not like you’re a terrible roommate.”
“Just a mediocre one?”
“I’d say slightly below average. You leave your shit everywhere and you’re loud in the mornings.” The twinkle in his dark eyes belied his words.
“I make your coffee.”
“Fair point. That bumps you up to average.”
I grinned and focused on the game again. My character respawned, and I navigated through the wasteland with renewed focus, very aware of Marco’s hand still resting on my ankle, his thumb absently rubbing small circles against the bone there.
He probably didn’t even realize he was doing it.
His hand on my skin, the gentle, unconscious touch—somehow it seemed natural. Not awkward or weird or crossing some invisible line. Just… comfortable. And somehow that felt right to me. Like maybe some friendships existed outside the usual rules.
Two months. Maybe three.
I should have been anxious about overstaying my welcome, about getting too comfortable in someone else’s space.
But reclining on Marco’s couch, my feet in his lap, the garlic and herb aroma of the dinner he’d cooked still lingering in the air, his hand warm against my ankle…
I wasn’t worried at all.
For the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt settled.
And that started to worry me.
“You’re overthinking again,” Marco said without looking up from his tablet.
“How can you even tell? You’re not watching me.”
“I can feel it. You get tense.”
I forced myself to relax, to focus on the game, to stop analyzing every small moment and just exist in this one.
I could handle a couple of months.
And if the thought of leaving at the end of it made my gut twist… well, I had plenty of time to deal with that later.
For now, I had a game to win, and a best friend’s couch to monopolize.