There was something about moving back into my parents' house that made me feel like a teenager again.
The way they fussed over me, despite the fact that I was a trained nurse myself, was almost absurd. My mother went above and beyond, making my favorite chicken soup, the same one she used to cook whenever I got sick. Dad insisted on helping me up the stairs, even with his bad back.
My room was exactly as I had left it last Christmas.
The same navy-blue wallpaper lined the walls. The marking guide from my last university paper from years ago was still clipped to the small board above my desk, surrounded by books I hadn't touched in months. Everything was untouched. Preserved.
Except for the duvet.
That, they had changed. Soft purple instead of the old one I remembered. It smelled faintly of fresh laundry, clean and familiar, the scent easing something tight in my chest.
Home. I was finally home.
"Well, get some rest, kiddo," Dad said, guiding my gently toward the bed. "Your mom's making your favorite soup. She'll bring it up in a jiffy."
"Dad, please, you don't have to," I protested, as he began tucking the blanket around me like I was ten again. "Your back—"
"Nonsense." He waved it off, though I caught the way he drew a careful breath as he straightened. "I don't know how many chances I'll get to take care of my daughter like this again."
I frowned. "Don't say things like that."
"Oh, you know what I mean," he said with a chuckle. "I'm getting old. It's about time I start looking after my grandkids instead of you."
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't quite hide my smile.
He moved toward the door, then paused, one hand resting on the handle as he glanced back at me.
"That Marcus," he said. "I like him."
My stomach tightened, just slightly.
"Never met a man so ready to claim my daughter," he added, the word sounding almost foreign on his tongue. He shook his head with an amused huff. "You youngsters and your strange words."
Mom came in not long after I had woken up from my short nap, balancing a tray with a steaming bowl of soup, a glass of water with my painkillers and antibiotics. She set it down carefully next to my bed, despite my protests, smoothing the duvet over my legs like I might unravel if she didn't.
"How are you feeling?" she asked, brushing a stray strand of hair from my hair before I could protest. "You must be starving."
"You don't have to do this, Mom," I said, picking up the bowl of soup from the tray before she could do it for me. "I'm not an invalid, I still can function."
"Nonsense," she scoffed, brushing her hand in the air. "I'm your mother, it is only my duty. Besides, it's good to have you back here."
I nodded, taking a spoonful of her soup. God, how could something so simple be so good? I hadn't even realized I was this hungry.
"So...that man. Marcus."
I sighed, already knowing where this was going. I placed the bowl against my lap. "Mom—"
"Are you engaged?" she pressed, her eyes bright in a way that meant she had already decided something in her head. "Because the way he was looking at you...I remember the way your father—Elena, don't lie to me."
I rolled my eyes, lifting the spoon just to give myself something to do. "I just got out of the hospital."
"Mm," she hummed, entirely unconvinced. "That's not a no."
She paused, then added, almost too casually. "But if you were...I wouldn't mind that Marcus. I like him far more than Garrick."
My brows knit together. "Not that there's anything going on between us," I said too quickly to sound convincing, but pushed on anyway. "Still, I never thought you'd say that. I thought you loved Garrick."
"He shot my daughter. And cheated on her," she replied flatly, rising from the edge of the bed. "He's fortunate I wasn't there. I might've shot him myself."
"Mom!"
"What?" she shrugged, entirely unrepentant. Then, with a small huff, "Either way, if Marcus comes here asking for your hand, he'll have my blessing." Her gaze flicked over me, assessing, amused. "He's certainly not difficult to look at."
"Dad said the same thing," I muttered, just as she reached for the door.
She glanced back, a smug smile tugging at her lips. "Of course he did."
By nightfall, the house had quieted.
Dad had caught me trying to carry the tray back down. I only made it a few steps out of my bed when he picked it up and carried it back down, muttering how stubborn I can be. That despite my career in healthcare, I can be a terrible patient.
I couldn't help the smile forming in my face.
Mom had helped me change my bandages after I showered, her hands gentle but efficient, the familiar rhythm of care settling over me like it always had. By the time she left, turning off the main lights, reminding me to rest, I was already sinking into the soft comfort of my bed, wrapped in my fluffy nightrobe, the faint scent of antiseptic and laundry still clinging to the air.
I can't leave them. That much is clear.
Even if they weren't biologically my parents, they raised me. They loved me like their own. I don't think—no. I can't. I can't leave them.
A soft tap broke my thoughts.
Something small had stuck the window by my bed.
I stilled.
Then—another tap.
A pebble.
I pushed the duvet aside with my good arm and made my way carefully to the window. When I pulled the curtain back, my breath caught.
Marcus.
He stood in the backyard, tall and immovable, the moonlight casting him in silver and shadow. The deep red of his sweater only made him look more...otherworldly. Handsome. Powerful. Definitely Roman.
I pushed the window open, wincing slightly at the effort.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I hissed under my breath.
My house wasn't big. It wasn't tall either. If I could hear him, he could certainly hear me. And if I wasn't careful, so could my parents.
This is ridiculous.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he stepped closer to the wall, his dark gaze never leaving mine, measured with intent. And mischief.
Without hesitation, he reached for the ledge and began to climb effortlessly.
My breath hitched. "Marcus—"
But he was already moving, there was no stopping him. It was like this was nothing more than muscle memory. Within seconds, he was level with my window, one hand braced against the frame, the other gripping the edge as he held himself there with impossible ease.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
I was too stunned.
The night air slipped in between us. Cool against my skin, but where he was, it felt warmer. Charged.
"Are you insane?" I whispered. "If my father sees you—"
"He will not," Marcus said quietly, confident.
Then, more softly, "I would not have waited until now, otherwise."
Something in my chest tightened.
He shifted slightly, one hand leaving its hold just long enough to reach for me. His fingers brushed my cheek. Light, almost hesitant, as if he was testing whether I would pull away.
I didn't. It wasn't like I could, even if I wanted to.
His thumb lingered there for a fraction longer than necessary, the touch grounding.
"I needed to see you," he said.
His gaze searched mine, steady and unguarded in a way I hadn't seen before.
"To leave you as I did—" he exhaled softly, jaw tightening, "—it did not sit well with me."
I swallowed, my voice quieter now. "You climbed up my window...because of that? How did you even get here?"
A faint, almost imperceptible shift at the corner of his mouth.
"Worry not, I have done far more reckless things," he said. Then, after a beat, his voice lowering, "None that felt as necessary."