Chapter 4: The Jealous Bruise

Early the next morning, Marcus knocked on Harley’s door, looking more beat up than ever—bandaged hand, a bruise at his mouth, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. The city’s trash trucks thundered outside as I followed him, guilt heavy in my chest.

He handed me a greasy breakfast sandwich and said, "Eat first, then I’ll take you to the new place."

While we talked, he noticed a red mark under my collar, brushing his fingers across my skin. I flinched at his touch.

"Why is it red?" he asked, concern cracking his tough tone. He rolled up my sleeve—my pale arm was streaked with red.

"Allergic?" he asked, thumb tracing a mark. I pulled away, shrugging. "Maybe the quilt was too rough."

Marcus didn’t quite buy it, pressing his thumb into my skin to watch it flush. "You really are," he said, voice softening with a hint of a smile. It started to sting, so I pinched his waist in protest.

He jumped, ears turning red. "What are you doing?"

"Sorry, but you hurt me first, so I..."

He grumbled, "Seriously, you don’t know anything," but his eyes were warm.

Harley leaned in, arms crossed, coffee in hand. "Hey, take it easy, this isn’t a hotel."

Marcus’s face reddened. He escaped, muttering, "I’ll go buy you some medicine."

I turned to Harley. "Is he mad?"

She grinned. "Yeah, he’s mad. Aren’t you going to coax him?"

I asked, "How do I coax him?"

She winked. "Go give him a kiss and say, ‘Don’t be mad, big guy. I’ll make it up to you.’ Trust me, it works."

I rehearsed the line in my head, determined to try it if I ever got the chance.

The new place Marcus found was tiny but sunny—one bed, a kitchenette, yellow walls and the smell of fresh paint. "This is the best I could find. Don’t hate it," he muttered, bracing for disappointment.

I slid onto the bed beside him. "Are you still mad?"

He didn’t answer, so I straddled him, doing my best to look fierce. "You’re not allowed to be mad. If you keep sulking, I’ll kiss you."

He looked up at me, a faint smile tugging his lips. "Okay."