Chapter 3
Chapter Three
MARLOWE
The light filtering through the window is thin and gray—the kind that dulls the world rather than waking it. My body aches in that quiet, familiar way it does after a night spent half-sleeping, half-listening for a door that never opened.
Damian lies beside me, unmoving. One arm is bent behind his head, the other rests across his stomach. His breathing is slow and steady. A day's worth of stubble shadows his jaw. He looks peaceful.
I never heard him come in.
I watch him, trying to piece together the hours between showing Neve to the spare room and now.
She and I stayed up talking in the kitchen until the clock blinked past two.
Her eyes were tired, but happy. We didn’t talk about anything important—at least, not out loud.
I didn’t ask why she was suddenly here. I was just glad she came.
We had dinner, then wandered the boardwalk.
Damian had other plans—something that kept him away for most of the night.
I only started to worry when I crawled into bed, worn out and alone, the space beside me cold.
I waited for him. I didn’t mean to, but I did.
I stayed there in the dark, listening. Hoping I’d feel the mattress shift beneath his weight.
Hoping for the press of his body behind mine.
But he never came.
Not until now.
I shift closer, slowly. His scent reaches me first—clean skin, soap, and something that doesn’t belong. A trace of cigarette lingers in his hair, stale and out of place. He doesn’t smoke.
My eyes move to the nightstand. His gun sits next to his phone.
No effort to hide it. Just there, like it’s always belonged.
A tightness forms in my chest that won’t loosen, no matter how deep I breathe.
Something is definitely going on. Damian hasn’t been himself lately.
He’s quieter now, but not in the same way he used to be.
His silences once felt thoughtful, like he was weighing his words, choosing what to say with care.
Now they feel hollow—like something’s been taken out of him and tucked away where I can’t reach.
Not cold, not cruel, just distant. Like I’m watching him drift and I don’t know how to anchor him back.
And maybe he’s not drifting at all. Maybe he’s just pulling away from me.
I don’t know what I’ve done—or if I’ve done anything at all.
I try to tell myself it’s just stress, or whatever he’s got going on in that closed-off head of his.
But sometimes I catch him staring out the window, or watching me like he’s already halfway gone.
And I wonder—if he’s thinking about leaving the East Coast. Leaving this place. Leaving me.
We’ve never talked about us. Not really.
Not in the way that matters. I’ve tried, a few times—almost said the words.
But every time I get close, he shuts me up with his mouth on mine.
His hands on my skin. And God, it works.
Every time. He kisses the questions right out of me, touches me until I forget I even had any.
Until I’m too breathless, too wrecked, too wanton to care about anything except the next wave he pulls me under.
I hate that it’s easier to fall into a bed with him than into his heart.
He’s never said he loves me. I’ve never asked.
I’m not sure which one of us is more afraid of the answer.
But the truth of it sits between us, thick and heavy, waiting for one of us to break beneath its weight.
And I don’t want to be the one who breaks first. I don’t want to be the girl who begs for something he can’t give.
Who needs him to define whatever this is.
It feels foolish. Needy. But I can’t shake the feeling that if I ask for more, he’ll walk.
Still, part of me thinks he already has. Quietly. Without slamming any doors, without saying goodbye. Just... slipping through the cracks while I wasn’t looking.
Where was he last night?
I ease out of bed, careful not to wake him.
My feet find the floor, and I stand in the hush of the morning, watching him for a beat longer.
I tell myself I’m not going to look at the gun again.
I do anyway. Whatever he’s keeping from me, it’s getting closer.
Maybe it’s something dangerous. I can feel it pressing at the edges.
I tiptoe out into the kitchen, needing an escape.
I start the coffee and lean against the counter while it brews, arms crossed over my chest, the hem of my sweatshirt twisted in one hand. The apartment is so empty and still. The only sound is the soft tick of the clock on the wall and the slow, familiar hiss of the machine as it fills the carafe.
The scent of butter and vanilla drifts up from the bakery below—warmth folded into sugar, cinnamon, and the sharpness of brewed espresso. It’s Friday morning. The weekend crew is already working. The storefront is probably glowing with trays of fresh croissants and glazes still drying.
I could go down there and find something else to focus on and silence the noise in my head. Instead, I stand still, trying not to read too much into an empty space beside me in bed all night and the gun sitting on the nightstand.
When the coffee finishes, I pour a mug and take a sip before it has time to cool. It burns just enough to distract me. I set the mug down and check my phone out of habit. Two messages. Neither from Damian telling me he’d be home late. Just another text I refuse to answer.
Lo, it’s me. Please don’t block me. I just want to talk.
I stare at it for a second before hitting the lock button. The screen goes black. My stomach doesn’t unclench.
The spare room door creaks open behind me.
Neve steps out slowly, barefoot, hair tangled from a restless night of tossing and turning. Dark moons bloom beneath her eyes that tell of sleep that never came.
She pulls her sleeves over her hands and squints toward the light.
Her long chestnut hair falls in loose waves down her back, golden streaks catching the morning sun when she passes the window.
Her face is delicate, almost doll-like, with wide brown eyes that seem too knowing for someone who looks so young.
There is something fragile about her, like beauty caught mid-bloom and shadowed at the edges.
“You want coffee?” I ask, holding up my mug.
She nods without speaking, crossing the kitchen in quiet steps. I pour her a cup and slide it across the counter. She holds it between her palms like she needs the warmth more than the caffeine.
Neither of us says anything at first. She leans against the island. I stare into my mug.
“Did you happen to hear Damian come in last night?” I ask, keeping my voice soft.
Neve blinks slowly, then glances toward the hallway like she’s rewinding her memory. “About an hour ago,” she says. “Maybe less.”
My gaze flicks to the microwave clock. 8:03 a.m. He was out all night. I nod, swallow, and take another sip, even though it tastes wrong in my mouth now.
Neve watches me for a second too long. “What’s wrong?”
I don’t answer right away. The truth feels petty and bitter, like it doesn’t deserve to be spoken. “I didn’t know he was gone that long,” I say finally. “I guess I thought…” I stop and shake my head. “Doesn’t matter.”
Neve doesn’t look away. “It kind of sounds like it does.”
I stare at the dark swirl in my coffee and try not to feel anything. “He’s never done that before.” The words come out flat. Not accusatory. Not angry. Just real.
Neve sets her mug down carefully. “Done what?”
I shake my head again. “Stayed out all night. Since we came back from Vegas three months ago, we haven’t slept apart.
” We fall quiet again. There’s nothing else to say.
Not without unraveling something I’m not ready to pull apart.
Not yet. But the weight in my chest doesn’t ease.
“There was a gun on the nightstand,” I say, my voice low.
Neve’s gaze flicks toward the hallway like she’s expecting him to step out any second. Her posture shifts. She shrinks slightly. “That’s not normal?” she asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question.
“No,” I say. I hesitate. “He’s been different too. Distracted. Somewhere else, even when he’s right in front of me. And now he stayed out all night.”
Neve looks toward the closed bedroom door again. Her eyes narrow slightly before she turns back to me, voice low and steady. “He called me yesterday,” she says. “Said he needed a favor. That he wanted me here. With you.”
I blink. “What?” I thought she was just surprising me with a visit.
She nods. “He didn’t say why. Just told me to pack a bag. Booked me the first flight out here.”
I stare at her, the mug cooling in my hands, the air thinning around me. “He wanted you to come stay with me?” I ask.
Neve’s mouth pulls into something like a frown. “He said he’d explain more when I got here, but he hasn’t. I thought maybe you’d know what was going on.”
I don’t. And that terrifies me.
Neve and I fall silent at the sound of a knock. Three sharp raps, then nothing.
I glance at her, and for a moment we both just stand there. Not speaking. Not moving. Then I set my mug down and walk to the front door, cracking it open.
Bridger stands on the other side, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, jaw tight like he didn’t expect to see me. “Hey,” he says, voice low.
“Hey,” I echo, stepping aside so he can come in.
As soon as he sees Neve, he stops short. His eyes meet hers for only a second before he drops his gaze to the floor, then off to the side like looking at her too long might cost him something. “Neve,” he says, with a nod so small it’s almost nothing.
Neve lifts her chin. “Hey, Bridger.”
It’s only then I realize neither of us is wearing pants. Just long shirts and bare legs and sleep-rumpled hair. I clear my throat. “I’m going to go… throw something on.” I duck into my room and shut the door behind me. The quiet thud of it feels more final than it should.
Damian’s still asleep, sprawled across the bed like he owns it.
He takes up more space than should be possible.
The blanket has slipped low across his hips, baring the lines of his chest and the ink spread over his arms. All sharp edges and untold stories.
Even now, something about him pulls at me, all heat and tension and impossible calm.
I could look at him for hours and still not feel like I’ve seen everything.
His dark hair is a mess across the pillow, lips parted just slightly.
There’s a softness to him like this that he never lets show when he’s awake. God, he’s beautiful. And distracting.
I reach for a pair of leggings on the dresser and tug them on quickly.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand. I glance at it, more from instinct than intent. A name flashes across the screen. Reese. My stomach tightens. Under the name:
Don’t worry, she won’t find out.
I freeze.
I don’t touch the phone. I just stand there and stare at it like the message might rewrite itself if I wait long enough.
Is that about me?
The room tilts slightly under my feet. I don’t know who Reese is. I don’t know what the text means. I don’t know if I’m allowed to ask. Because I don’t even know what we are.
My gaze darts back to him, still asleep, still peaceful.
The same mouth that kissed me just yesterday.
The same hands that worshipped my body like I was something rare.
And now I don’t know if any of it meant anything to him at all.
Is it all just sex between us? Is he sleeping with Reese too?
Is that what I’m not supposed to find out?
I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath me, and stare down at my hands like they might hold the answers I’ve been too afraid to ask for.
The message still floats behind my eyes, sharp and breathless, etched into the inside of my skull: Don’t worry, she won’t find out.
The words twist. Loop. Rewind. Every time I try to tell myself it doesn’t mean what I think it does, another part of me speaks up and says it probably does.
We’ve only known each other for three months.
A hundred days, if that. And most of those have been spent tangled in bedsheets, lips pressed to skin, breaths stolen between heartbeats and silences.
But is that all we are? A long stretch of nights and pleasure sharp enough to distract us from asking what we’re actually doing?
I don’t even know if we’re exclusive. I’ve never asked. We’ve never defined it. Never said the words that keep trying to build at the back of my throat when he pulls me close or whispers my name like a promise.
He’s never said them either.
I tell myself that’s fine. That I don’t need them.
But thinking about him touching someone else the way he touches me—his mouth on her neck, his hands gripping her waist, the low sound he makes when he’s too far gone—
Something inside me aches. A raw, breath-stealing kind of ache that curls deep in my chest and won’t let go.
Is that love? Or is it just jealousy?
I press my palm flat against my stomach like I can quiet the twisting inside. Like I can will it all away if I sit still enough.
Damian shifts slightly in his sleep, his breath catching before it settles again.
I glance over my shoulder at him. His face is soft in the morning light, shadows painting his jaw, lashes dark against his skin.
He looks younger like this. Untroubled. Like whatever he’s carrying hasn’t followed him into his dreams. And I hate that there are parts of him I know nothing about.
I stand slowly, careful not to stir the bed, and move toward the door. I need space. Not because I don’t want him. But because I do. And if this is going to hurt, I need to prepare myself for it.
The hallway is quiet as I step into it, every breath stretched tight in my ribs. I just need air. And maybe, for a minute, I need to remember who I am without him. Who I was before he made me forget.