Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Lila
The next morning, I woke up tangled in the old quilt, sunlight slicing through the lavender curtains and reminding me of when I used to live here.
My body was restless, as if the house had slipped under my skin overnight and refused to let go. Downstairs, I could already hear Marcus. I closed my eyes and listened to the low gurgle of the coffee maker, the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic, and the faint scrape of a chair being pulled out.
Marcus had never been one to sleep in, and I guess some things didn’t change.
I stayed in bed a minute longer, staring at the ceiling cracks I used to trace like constellations when I was eighteen and couldn’t sleep. Back then, the house had felt too small and too full of rules and expectations.
Marcus had been this distant, solid figure.
He was always gone before dawn most days and home after dark.
We’d barely overlapped in the same space for more than a handful of evenings a week.
And then I’d been too busy packing for college, obsessing over dorm assignments and course schedules, to notice much beyond the fact that he made Mom happy for a while. Or so I’d thought.
But now the house felt different. Smaller in some ways and bigger in others.
I knew we’d have to talk about the divorce. I knew he probably needed someone to listen to him even if he’d never admit it.
I dragged myself up, pulled on soft leggings and a loose cropped tee, and walked downstairs barefoot.
The kitchen smelled like strong coffee and frying bacon.
Marcus stood at the stove, and the muscles in his forearms flexed as he flipped the bacon in one skillet and finished scrambling eggs in another.
He didn’t turn, but he knew I was there.
“Coffee’s hot,” he finally said, voice still rough from sleep. “Mugs are in the usual spot.”
I crossed the room, grabbed the chipped blue mug I’d always claimed as mine, and added a shit ton of milk. The first sip burned my tongue in the best way.
He set plates of scrambled eggs, crispy thick bacon, and buttered toast on the table.
I sat on the chair opposite him. We ate in near-silence for the first few minutes with the only sounds being the scrape of forks and the hum of the refrigerator.
It felt strangely domestic, like we were picking up a routine we’d never really had.
Eventually, he broke it. “Sleep okay?”
“Yeah. The bed’s still the same, which means I have a kink in my neck,” I teased and smiled.
He gave a small huff that might’ve been a laugh. “Good on sleeping okay. Shitty about the worn mattress.”
I nodded, watching him over the rim of my mug.
In the morning light, the silver in his dark hair caught and seemed to glow for a split second.
The lines around his eyes were deeper, but they didn’t make him look older as much as…
experienced. His T-shirt clung to the hard planes of his chest when he leaned forward to reach for the salt.
I caught myself staring at the way the cotton outlined every ridge of muscle and quickly dropped my gaze to my plate.
“So,” he said, setting his fork down. “About the divorce.”
The last word landed like a stone in still water. I looked up and held my breath.
He leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, biceps bulging under his sleeves. “You've probably heard bits and pieces from your mom. Figured I should give you the short version from my side.”
I nodded slowly. “She said you two… drifted. No big, blowout fights. Just grew apart.”
“That’s the simple version but not the whole truth.
” He exhaled. “Truth is, we stopped talking. Stopped touching. Stopped everything except sharing the same address. It was like that for over a year. I threw myself into work, and she found someone else. When I found out, it wasn’t even a shock. It just confirmed what I already knew.”
Bitterness edged his tone, but unmistakable. Not loud anger, just the low burn of something that had been smoldering for years.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t know about the affair.”
“Don’t be.” He met my eyes. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t really anyone’s fault. It’s just how life is sometimes. People change and love between them ends.”
I swallowed. “Do you hate her?”
A pause. “No, not anymore. I did for a while right after I found out about the affair. Now? I’m just… done and have moved on. The house is paid off, the company’s solid, and I’ve got my health. That’s more than a lot of guys get after twenty years of marriage, let alone five.”
“But it’s too hard to stay here?”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah. I want something smaller and more manageable, and I’d like to own some property that I can grow old on.”
Five years. That’s all it had been between them. He’d married Mom right as I turned eighteen, right as I was packing to leave. We’d lived under the same roof for less than twelve months before I went to college. Barely enough time to form habits. Barely enough time for anything real.
And yet, here we were.
I watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed his coffee, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, and the steady rise and fall of his chest under that damn T-shirt. Heat crawled up my neck. I forced my gaze back to my plate.
But he caught it, and when I looked at him under my lashes, a slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
The air between us thickened, and my pulse kicked hard against my throat.
He leaned forward slightly. “Grew up real pretty, Lila. Real pretty.”
The compliment landed low in my belly, taboo and hot. I tried to laugh it off. “Flattery from the man who threatened my prom date with a hammer if he brought me home late?”
“Didn’t threaten,” he said, smirk deepening. “Just made sure he understood the rules.”
“Rules,” I echoed. “Like family rules?”
“Something like that.” His eyes darkened. “Families have a lot of secrets, don’t they? Things we never say out loud.”
My breath caught. The words hung there, loaded, dangerous, and laced with every taboo thing I’d pretended didn’t exist back then.
I swallowed. “Like what?”
He studied me for a long beat then shrugged one shoulder, casual in a way that felt anything but. “Like how some lines are only lines because we drew them. And how easy it is to erase them when no one’s watching.”
The kitchen suddenly felt too small. Too warm. I should’ve changed the subject. Should’ve laughed, stood up, and walked away.
Instead, I held his gaze. “And if someone wanted to erase them?”
Something raw flickered in those gray eyes. Maybe it was hunger, or maybe it was his restraint on the verge of snapping.
“Then we’d have to be real careful,” he breathed. “Because once they’re gone, they can’t be redrawn.”
The silence stretched taut as wire.
Then he stood, gathering the plates with slow, deliberate movements. Muscles shifted under his shirt as he carried everything to the sink. I stayed frozen, heart hammering, skin buzzing.
He washed the dishes without looking at me, but I could feel the weight of his awareness. When he finally turned off the water and dried his hands, he glanced over.
“Got some errands to run this afternoon,” he said, voice rougher than before. “You need anything while I’m out?”
I stood and shook my head, not trusting my voice.
He nodded once then walked past me toward the hall. His arm brushed mine. It was just the lightest graze, but a sharp jolt shot through me.
He paused at the doorway and looked back. “Welcome home, Lila,” he said softly.
Then he was gone.
I stood there alone in the kitchen, staring at the empty doorway, replaying every word, every look, and every careful inch of distance he’d maintained and then deliberately closed.
I stood there alone in the kitchen, and the silence only made my pulse pound harder.