Chapter 33 Valentina
VALENTINA
It had only been a week. One week of waking up and knowing he was already gone. Of hearing the quiet click of the door somewhere around seven, maybe earlier.
He left early. Always. I never caught him in the morning.
By the time I was up, the apartment was clean, the coffee pot was half-full, and the sugar I hadn’t asked for but always grumbled about was suddenly on the counter.
I’d gotten used to drinking it black, but I guess he’d noticed. Figured. The man could ignore a heartfelt conversation like a pro, but somehow, he’d remembered I liked sugar.
I’d started asking questions. Normal ones. Questions that didn’t mean anything—at least not on the surface. His favorite sandwich (turkey, no mayo). The first job he’d ever worked (mechanic, believe it or not). Whether he’d ever had braces (no).
He asked about my mom. He hadn’t even met her, yet he asked if I’d talked to her lately, if she was eating, if she still hated the nurse with the tattoo I’d told him about.
I think he liked to hear the answers, or maybe he just liked to see me relax when I spoke about her.
It was one of the few things I knew how to talk about without turning everything into a joke.
Yesterday, I’d asked about his family.
It was late. I didn’t even remember why it had come up. I was folding laundry or something when he walked past and I said, “Do you have any siblings?”
He’d said no. Not biological ones anyway.
Then I’d asked, “Well, what about your parents?” because I was an idiot.
He’d looked at me for a second—one of those long Marco looks—and said, “I grew up in the system.”
I’d wanted to say something. Wanted to ask more. I hadn’t. Something about the way he’d said it made me think this wasn’t a conversation we were having. It was just a detail he’d let slip, like he’d forgotten to lock that particular drawer.
So I’d nodded and changed the subject. But I’d thought about it all night.
I wondered where he’d slept when he was a kid. If he ever had a favorite meal growing up. If he’d ever celebrated a birthday. I wondered if he used to dream about a different life—one with a real house. With stability.
We still fought sometimes. That was inevitable.
He still looked at me like I was unpredictable, and I still poked at him just to watch him react.
But something was different. Maybe it was the way he lingered in a room longer than before.
Maybe it was the way he actually let me talk without cutting me off.
Maybe it was the way I noticed things I hadn’t noticed before.
Like how every night, when he thought no one was looking, he rolled his shoulder. Subtly, just once, like he was working out a kink that had been there for a while. Sleeping on the couch probably wasn’t doing wonders for him.
Not that he ever complained. I doubted he would even if his entire arm fell off. That was Marco—he’d suffer in silence before he ever admitted to needing something.
That thought settled somewhere in my chest for the next couple of days. I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t my problem.
Except, apparently, it was. Because three nights later, after hearing the shift of leather and knowing damn well he was probably stretching out that shoulder again, I got up and started moving his things.
His watch, his cufflinks, the extra set of clothes he’d left in the hall closet—one by one, they went from the couch to my room.
His room.
Our room?
“What are you doing?”
“Making a life-altering decision.”
He didn’t move. “You’re moving my things.”
“Ding, ding, ding,” I said, shooting him a quick look over my shoulder. “Look at you, lawyer. So perceptive.”
He narrowed his eyes, clearly trying to work out my angle. Marco always needed there to be a reason—an ulterior motive, some hidden agenda—but this time there wasn’t one. Or if there was, I didn’t want to think too hard about what it meant.
I sighed before turning to face him fully. “You’re sleeping in the bed.”
His posture stiffened. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No,” he repeated, “I’m not.”
It didn’t take me long to roll my eyes as I stepped past him to grab the suit jacket draped over the back of the couch. “Your shoulder’s been bothering you.”
That earned me a look. “What?”
I folded the jacket over my arm, not meeting his eye. “You roll it every chance you get. If you keep it up, you’re gonna start looking like one of those hunchbacked old men. How old are you again? Thirty-three? It’s only a matter of time.”
“Thirty-two,” he corrected. “And no, Valentina. Sleeping in the same bed would cross boundaries.”
I let out a short laugh. “Boundaries?” I echoed, tilting my head. “Marco, I’ve had my tongue down your throat. What boundaries do you think we still have?”
“That was different.”
I arched a brow. “How?”
Silence.
That’s what I thought.
“You’re sleeping in the bed,” I said, quieter now. “Not because I care—let’s be clear—but because I don’t feel like dealing with your miserable mood every night when your shoulder finally gives out.”
“Fine,” he said.
“Try not to hog the covers,” I added seductively.
I expected him to be difficult about it. To argue, to throw some comment about how he didn’t need the bed, how he’d been sleeping just fine on the couch, but he didn’t.
The bed dipped as he finally slid in beside me. He stayed on his side—because of course he did—like the invisible line between us actually meant something.
His fingers twitched against his forearm.
I smirked. “You know, you can at least pretend to get comfortable. You’ve been sleeping on that couch for weeks. I thought you’d be grateful for a mattress that doesn’t have springs trying to stab you.”
“I don’t mind the couch,” he finally muttered.
I snorted. “Your body seems to.”
“You been watching me, Valentina?”
I paused. Watching him? Yeah, I guess I had. Noticing all those tiny things—the subtle signs he’d never willingly show. He wouldn’t even admit his pain to himself, let alone someone else.
“Hard not to when you stretch your arm all the time. What happened? Did you trip over you own laces or something?”
“No.”
“What then?”
He stared ahead like he hadn’t heard me. Which meant he had. Loud and clear. So I did what I do when I’m not supposed to poke at something. I poked harder.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Bar fight? Motorbike crash? Angry ex who knew how to aim?”
“Are you trying to get to know me at three in the morning?”
Was I? Would he even entertain the idea?
“Well, yeah. I think I should know the basic things a wife would know.”
“You’re wasting your time. There’s nothing interesting here.”
I hummed. “That’s subjective.”
“Is it?”
“Absolutely,” I said, sitting up. “For example, I now have a very important question.”
He waited for my question impatiently, crossing his arms.
“What’s your favorite color?”
Marco stared at me. “Seriously?”
I nodded.
“Black,” he mumbled.
I rolled my eyes. “That’s not even a real color.”
He smirked. “Sure it is.”
I gave him a look and sighed dramatically. “Fine. Favorite food?”
“Grilled cheese.”
“You’re messing with me.”
“I’m not.”
“Grilled cheese?” I repeated, just to make sure I’d heard him correctly.
Marco gave a slow nod.
I stared. “You mean to tell me, out of all the things in the world—steak, lobster, something obnoxiously expensive—your favorite food is literally bread and cheese?”
“It’s good.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” I defended.
“Are we done now?”
“Do questions exhaust you?”
“No, but you do.”
I let out a dramatic sigh. “I’m just trying to be a good wife.”
“You can try tomorrow.”
I groaned, rolling onto my stomach. “This was the worst bonding exercise ever.”
Marco smirked. “Then let’s not make it a habit. Get some sleep.”
“Fine. But if I ever find out your favorite color is actually something normal, like blue, I’m going to be so mad.”
And that realization was probably more dangerous than anything else. Why did I care so much about his favorite color?
Then, after a second, he said, “It’s yellow.”