36. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CONNOR
Ahard knock cracks against the door, and I drag the blanket tighter around myself, curling deeper into the warmth I’ve been hiding beneath for the last few days.
It smells stale in here. Closed windows, old food, too many hours spent in the same room without bothering to do anything about it.
I can smell it every time I move, and normally it would drive me insane, but the blanket is warm and heavy, muffling everything just enough that I can bury my face in the pillow and pretend I don’t exist for a little longer.
Another knock comes, harder this time, and I groan, pressing my face further into the pillow.
“Connor, open the door before I open it for you.”
Marcus’s voice carries straight through the wood, firm enough that I know he means it. He’ll probably start kicking the fucking thing next.
I exhale roughly, throwing the blanket back just enough to force myself upright. The room tilts for a second when I move too fast, and I sit there blinking until it settles, rubbing the heel of my hand over eyes that feel gritty and sore.
I don’t even want to know what I look like.
The blanket comes with me when I finally stand, wrapped tightly around my shoulders and trailing along the floor as I make my way across the flat. Morning light spills through the blinds, exposing everything I’ve been doing a pretty good job of ignoring.
Clothes dropped wherever I took them off. Empty wrappers shoved onto the table. Dishes sitting untouched beside the sink.
My skin crawls just looking at it.
This isn’t me.
I don’t live like this. I don’t leave cups sitting out or clothes on the floor or let things pile up until the whole room feels wrong around me.
Apparently I do now.
Marcus knocks again just as I reach the door, and I wrench it open with an irritated sniff.
He’s standing there with his arms full, a Tupperware container balanced against his chest and a plastic bag hanging from his wrist. I can see tissues through the plastic, some of the snacks I always reach for when I’m sick, a bottle of the juice I like.
My mouth pulls into what I hope resembles a smile, but judging by the way Marcus looks at me, I don’t quite manage it.
“I’m really okay,” I tell him, my voice thick enough to undermine the point. My gaze drops to the container in his hands. “You didn’t need to cook.”
Marcus actually laughs.
“As if.” He shakes his head, stepping toward me. “I can’t cook for shit, Con.”
My face scrunches into a grimace. He really can’t. I still remember the time he somehow managed to burn pasta while simultaneously leaving half of it hard.
Then he shrugs.
“Theo made it.”
My breath catches so sharply it hurts, the pathetic attempt at a smile disappearing before I can hold onto it. I turn my head away, but not before my vision blurs.
Of course Theo made it.
My throat closes around whatever I’m supposed to say to that.
I told him I missed him.
He told me to stay away.
And he still cooked for me.
“Oh,” I manage, the word barely making it out.
Marcus either doesn’t notice or decides not to acknowledge it. He shoulders past me into the flat, using his hip to nudge the door open wider.
“Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned,” he throws over his shoulder as he carries everything toward the table.
A laugh tries to escape me, but it catches halfway up my throat and comes out hollow instead.
Marcus takes another couple of steps.
Then stops.
I watch his shoulders stiffen as he looks around properly for the first time, his gaze moving from the dishes to the wrappers, then across the clothes scattered over the floor.
“Christ,” he breathes.
I pull the blanket tighter.
“I’ve never-” He trails off.
When he turns back to me, whatever stupid comment he was going to make is gone. His eyes narrow as they drag over me properly this time, taking in the blanket, my face, probably the fact I haven’t done anything with my hair in days.
“What’s going on, Con?”
I drop my gaze, staring at my socks instead. One has twisted slightly around my foot, the seam sitting wrong across my toes, and I focus on that because it’s easier than looking at him.
“Just a stupid cold,” I mutter.
The lie feels heavy the second it leaves my mouth.
Marcus hums.
I glance up just enough to catch him rolling his lips together, staring at me with that look he gets when he knows I’m full of shit but hasn’t decided how much he wants to push.
“You’ve always been a shit liar.”
“Thanks.”
He doesn’t answer.
Worse, he doesn’t push.
Marcus just turns away from me and grabs the laundry basket from beside the bed, carrying it into the middle of the room before he starts picking up clothes.
I stare at him.
“What are you doing?”
He ignores me, grabbing a pair of joggers and shoving them into the basket before reaching for something else.
I should stop him. Tell him I can clean my own flat.
Instead, I stand there wrapped in my blanket, watching him out of the corner of my eye while tension slowly winds tighter through my body.
Then his hand reaches toward the edge of the couch.
My stomach drops.
No.
Marcus picks up the black T-shirt crumpled there, and I know what it is before he’s even lifted it properly.
Theo’s.
My pulse kicks hard.
Marcus frowns down at it, turning it slightly between his fingers, and panic moves through me so quickly I don’t even think before opening my mouth.
“Sleep shirt.”
The words come out far too fast.
Marcus looks at me.
I cross the room before he can say anything, snatching the shirt out of his hand and stuffing it deep into the laundry basket.
The movement sends the faintest trace of cologne into the air.
It hits me so hard my knees actually weaken.
For one horrible second I’m back in his room with my face buried against his neck, breathing him in while his arms tighten around me. I lock my knees before Marcus can notice and pull the blanket tighter around myself instead.
Silence.
Too much silence.
I look up.
Marcus has gone completely still.
His eyes flick from me to the laundry basket, then slowly back again, something sharpening in his expression.
“Since when do you wear Dior?”
Heat crawls up my neck as I retreat further into the blanket, clutching the edges together beneath my chin like that’s somehow going to hide anything.
“When did this turn into an interrogation?” I snap.
Marcus blinks.
His brows shoot up, genuine surprise flashing across his face for a second, and I know immediately I’ve fucked up.
Because Marcus knows me.
And now he knows there’s something to find.
“What the fuck is going on with you lately?” Marcus fires back, dropping the laundry basket at his feet with a dull thud.
I turn away before he can get a proper look at my face, yanking the blanket from around my shoulders and shoving it onto the bed.
It lands in a tangled heap, and I immediately start straightening it, dragging one corner out even though there’s no fucking point.
I just need something to do with my hands, something to focus on other than the way my heart is pounding against my ribs.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, forcing the words out as evenly as I can.
I just want this over.
I want Marcus to take the hint and leave before he starts pulling at threads I’ve spent days trying not to look at too closely myself.
Marcus steps further into the room, squaring his shoulders as he gestures at me like I’m the problem he’s trying to solve. He somehow manages to take up what little space there is, making the flat feel even smaller.
“This, Connor. This new fucking attitude.”
I scoff, but the sound comes out brittle. “What, because I’m not just blindly following you anymore?”
“That’s not—” Marcus cuts himself off with a frustrated noise, dragging a hand roughly through his hair. “Jesus Christ.”
He turns away from me and starts grabbing at the clothes again, movements sharper now, like if he can’t take his frustration out on me, he’ll take it out on whatever’s within reach.
Fine.
Whatever.
As long as he stops looking at me.
Then his hand reaches toward the bed, and my stomach drops.
There’s a piece of dark green fabric half buried beneath the white bedding, just enough of it showing to make every muscle in my body lock up.
Fuck.
“Don’t—”
I move forward, but I’m too late.
Marcus grabs it and yanks.
Theo’s jersey unfurls between his hands.
The black fabric drops open, the lettering across the back unmistakable, and suddenly there’s no fucking air left in the room.
I stop dead.
Marcus does too.
His eyes drag slowly over the jersey before snapping up to mine.
The disbelief comes first before something darker settles behind it.
“What the fuck are you doing with Theo’s fucking jersey?”
His voice has dropped low enough that a warning prickles across my skin.
I reach for it. “I can explain.”
Marcus jerks his arm back, holding it out of my reach, his jaw clenching.
“If that explanation has anything to do with you being in his fucking bed—”
He stops.
A rough sound tears out of him as he looks between me and the jersey, like he can’t even bring himself to finish the thought. Then he throws it at me.
The fabric hits my chest and I catch it automatically, my fogers curling into it.
Because I know exactly how it ended up here. I Remember the stupid warmth in my chest when I realised his name was stretched across my back.
I can’t look at Marcus.
My arms fold around my middle instead, Theo’s jersey trapped between them, and I curl into myself, gripping the fabric so tightly my knuckles ache.
The laundry basket goes flying.
It slams into the wall with a sharp crack, and I flinch, my eyes squeezing shut.
“What were you fucking thinking?” Marcus snaps.
My fingers twist harder into the jersey, dragging it against my chest as the thought hits somewhere that still feels bruised. My vision blurs, and a tear slips hot down my cheek.
I stare down at the jersey, blinking hard at Theo’s name until the letters smear together.
When I finally force myself to look up, Marcus’s face has changed.
The anger is still there, but something fractures through it when he sees me. Something softer.
I hate it.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he exhales, dragging a hand down his face.
I swipe angrily at my cheek, clearing away the tear like that can undo the fact he saw it.
“It’s already over,” I say.
The words stick somewhere halfway out, scraping at my throat.
“It was never—”
I stop.
My mouth stays open, the rest of the sentence right there.
It was never anything.
That’s what I’m supposed to say.
That’s what I’ve been saying from the beginning. To Theo. To myself.
It was nothing.
Except I can’t say it now.
Not with Theo’s jersey clenched against my chest.
Not after watching him cry because I spent weeks making him feel like he meant nothing to me when he fucking—
My throat closes, and I look away.
Marcus goes very still.
When I glance back, whatever softness had broken through his anger is gone. His expression turns cold in a way I recognise immediately.
Protective.
Furious.
And I know exactly what he’s thinking.
“Marcus.”
He storms toward me.
Before I can react, he grabs Theo’s jersey and rips it out of my hands.
My fingers close, trying to keep hold of it, but the fabric slides through them before I can stop him.
“Marcus, don’t.”
He doesn’t even look at me, turning for the door, every step heavy with anger, and panic punches straight through my chest.
“Marcus.”
I go after him, but he’s already yanking the door open.
“Marcus, wait—”
The door swings wide.
Then he’s gone.
And I’m left standing there with my hands still curled around nothing.