Chapter 7
Maya
I don’t realize how tightly I’m gripping the edge of the sink until my fingers start to ache, the porcelain pressing cold and unyielding into my palms as if it’s the only solid thing left in a night that spun out of control so quickly I can’t quite trace the exact moment it tipped from normal into something darker, something sharp enough to leave a mark.
The bathroom is too bright, the overhead light unforgiving, and my reflection looks back at me with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, strands of hair clinging to my temples as though I’ve been running instead of just standing here, breathing too fast, trying to slow everything down before it slips even further beyond me.
Out in the bar, the music still pulses, muted now through the walls, but I can feel it in my chest like an echo of the chaos that just unfolded, and every time I close my eyes I see it again—the way Marco’s expression changed, not gradually, not with any warning I could catch in time, but all at once, like a door slamming shut and locking behind him.
One second he was beside me, solid and steady, his hand brushing mine in that casual, grounding way that had started to feel natural, and the next he was across the room, fists flying, his body moving with a force that didn’t belong in a crowded bar, that didn’t belong anywhere near me.
I swallow, pushing away from the sink and pressing my back against the cool tile wall, because standing upright suddenly feels like too much effort, like I need something at my spine to hold me together.
I tell myself to breathe, slow and even, the way I’ve done in other moments when things threatened to spiral, but this is different, because it isn’t just my reaction I’m trying to steady, it’s the lingering imprint of him, of the violence I hadn’t expected and the shame I saw flash across his face just before he pulled away from me and walked out.
He didn’t even look back.
That part settles into me with a weight I can’t quite shake, heavier than the shock, heavier than the fear that had flared sharp and immediate when I first realized what was happening.
He looked at me once, just once, his eyes dark and unreadable in a way I haven’t seen before, and there was something there—something fractured, something almost desperate—but it disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by distance, by a decision made so fast I didn’t have time to argue with it.
And then he was gone, leaving me standing there with strangers staring and the man on the floor groaning and the unmistakable sense that whatever this is between us just shifted in a way I don’t fully understand yet.
I push off the wall and move toward the door, my hand hesitating on the handle because stepping back out means facing it again, the noise, the looks, the questions I’m not ready to answer.
But hiding in here isn’t going to change anything, and I’ve never been good at pretending things didn’t happen just because they’re uncomfortable, so I pull the door open and step into the hallway, the dim lighting a relief after the harsh brightness inside.
The bartender catches my eye as soon as I reenter the main room, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity, and I can feel the attention shift toward me in small, subtle ways that still manage to make my skin prickle.
I keep my chin level, my steps steady, because the last thing I want is to give anyone the impression that I’m unraveling, even if that’s exactly what it feels like on the inside.
“Hey,” he says as I approach, leaning slightly across the bar. “You okay?”
The question is simple, but answering it feels anything but, because I don’t actually know what okay looks like at this moment, I don’t know how to condense the tangle of emotions into something that makes sense out loud.
I force a small nod, because it’s easier than explaining, easier than admitting that I’m shaken in a way I didn’t anticipate.
“I’m fine,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel, which is something, at least. “Is he…?”
“Guy’s got a busted lip and a bruised ego,” the bartender replies, glancing toward the far end of the room where a couple of people are still hovering. “He’ll live. Your friend, though—he took off pretty fast.”
Friend. The word lands awkwardly, too small and too vague for what Marco has become in the short time I’ve known him, but I don’t correct it, because I’m not sure what the right label is either, and trying to define it right now feels like trying to hold water in my hands.
“Yeah,” I murmur, my gaze drifting toward the door he walked out of, as if I might still catch a glimpse of him standing there, waiting, ready to explain. But it’s just a door, closed and unremarkable, giving nothing back.
“You want me to call someone for you?” the bartender asks, and there’s no judgment in his tone, just a quiet offer of help that I appreciate more than I can say.
“I’ll be okay,” I tell him again, and this time it feels a little more like a decision than a deflection. “Thank you.”
He nods, accepting that, and I step away from the bar, weaving through the thinning crowd toward the exit, because staying here feels like standing in the aftermath of something I don’t want to relive on a loop.
The night air hits me as soon as I push the door open, cool and grounding, and I inhale deeply, letting it fill my lungs, letting it remind me that the world outside this moment is still intact, still moving forward.
The street is quiet, the hum of distant traffic a soft backdrop to the sudden stillness, and for a second I just stand there, my arms wrapped around myself, trying to decide what comes next.
Part of me wants to call him immediately, to demand an explanation, to make him face what just happened instead of disappearing into whatever instinct drove him away.
But another part of me hesitates, because the look on his face before he left wasn’t defiance or indifference, it was something closer to fear, and I’m not sure pushing him right now would lead anywhere good.
Still, doing nothing doesn’t sit right either.
I pull my phone from my bag, staring at his name on the screen as if it might offer guidance, as if the simple act of looking at it could bridge the gap he created by walking away.
My thumb hovers over the call button, my mind replaying the moment again, searching for something I missed, some warning sign that could have prepared me.
But there wasn’t one, not that I could see, and that realization unsettles me more than anything else, because it means there are parts of him I haven’t even begun to understand.
The call rings once, twice, and then goes to voicemail.
I let out a slow breath, the disappointment sharp, and I don’t leave a message, because I wouldn’t know where to start, wouldn’t know how to fit everything I’m feeling into a few coherent sentences.
Instead, I lower the phone and tuck it back into my bag, telling myself that he probably just needs time, that whatever triggered him tonight isn’t something that can be unpacked in the middle of a street under dim lights and lingering adrenaline.
But needing time doesn’t erase the impact of what happened.
I start walking without a clear destination in mind, my heels clicking softly against the pavement, each step giving me something to focus on other than the looping questions in my head.
The town feels different now, quieter in a way that mirrors the shift inside me, and I find myself replaying not just the fight, but everything leading up to it, searching for patterns, for context, for anything that might help me make sense of the man who can be so controlled one moment and so completely unrestrained the next.
There were hints, maybe. The way he watches a room when we walk in, like he’s cataloging exits, like he’s assessing threats that no one else sees.
The tension that sometimes settles into his shoulders when something unexpected happens, subtle but there if you’re paying attention.
I noticed those things, but I didn’t assign them weight, didn’t connect them to anything concrete, because they didn’t seem dangerous, just… different.
Now I’m not so sure.
I reach the corner and pause, glancing back in the direction of the bar, as if the distance I’ve put between myself and that moment might make it easier to process, but it doesn’t.
If anything, it sharpens the edges, makes everything feel more defined, more real.
And beneath the lingering shock, beneath the frustration and the confusion, there’s something else, something quieter but persistent.
Concern.
It threads through my thoughts, unexpected and unwelcome, because it complicates everything, because it means I’m not just thinking about how this affects me, I’m thinking about what it means for him.
The shame on his face, the way he couldn’t meet my eyes for more than a second, the speed with which he removed himself from the situation—it doesn’t align with someone who doesn’t care, who isn’t aware of the line he crossed.
He knows.
And that knowledge doesn’t excuse what happened, doesn’t make it acceptable, but it does shift the way I see it, the way I see him.
I exhale slowly, turning back toward the street ahead, because standing here dissecting it isn’t going to bring clarity any faster, and I need time as much as he does, even if I don’t want to admit it.
Time to decide what I’m willing to accept, what boundaries matter enough to hold firm even when emotions try to blur them, and whether the connection we’ve been building is strong enough to withstand something like this.
Because it’s not just about tonight.
It’s about what tonight represents, what it reveals, and what it demands from both of us moving forward. I consider the possibility that I will not see Marco again. When I think about the shame on his face, how he said simply “I’m sorry,” I gain a new understanding that once again, I am alone.
I keep walking, the rhythm of my steps steadying me in a way nothing else has yet, and somewhere along the way the tightness in my chest begins to ease, not completely, but enough that I can think without feeling like I’m drowning in it.
I don’t have answers, not yet, but I have a clearer sense of the questions, and that’s a start.
And as much as I wish things were simpler, as much as I wish the version of Marco I’ve come to know didn’t include the one I saw tonight, I can’t ignore the fact that both exist, that both are real, and that understanding him means facing that complexity head-on.
The night stretches out in front of me, uncertain but still mine to navigate, and for now, that has to be enough.