The house is bigger than Rowan expected.
That’s the first thing he notices, not the quiet, not the way the air feels heavier in Bedford than Los Angeles, but the size. The driveway alone could hold six cars. The front door looks like something out of a magazine listing he’d scroll past without clicking.
He adjusts the strap of his large duffel on his small shoulder, suitcase wheel behind him catching for a second in the seam of the stone walkway.
The door opens before he can knock.
“Rowan!”
Sofia doesn’t hesitate. She’s already halfway out the door, arms around him, the smell of her perfume sharp and familiar, grounding him instantly.
“You made it— oh my god, you look—" she pulls back, her petite frame nearly eye to eye with him, hands still on his shoulders," —skinny.”
Rowan laughs, a little breathless from the flight, the travel, the nerves he didn’t want to admit to having.
“I know— I've been living off Ramen for the last 3 months to save what I could.” he says. “This place is—”
“I know, I know,” she cuts him off, already turning, already pulling him inside by the wrist. “It’s stupid big. I forgot to warn you.”
Forgot.
The word passes quickly, but something about the way she says it—too fast, too light—makes him glance at her.
Inside, the house is warm in that deliberate, expensive way. Dark wood, soft lighting, everything placed like it belongs there. It smells faintly like clean laundry and something savory he can’t place.
His suitcase wheels echo against the hardwood as she pulls him further in.
“Okay, so—don’t freak out,” she says.
That stops him.
Rowan doesn’t drop his bag, but he does stop walking.
“Sofia.”
“I know,” she says immediately, already talking over him, hands moving as she speaks. “I know how this sounds, and I swear I wasn’t going to—this literally just happened—”
“Sofia.”
She exhales, then blurts it out:
“I booked something. In Milan. It’s three months. I leave in, like… an hour.”
Silence.
Rowan blinks at her.
“An hour.”
“I didn’t know until yesterday,” she rushes. “Like fully confirmed yesterday, flight this morning, they need me there immediately—it’s a film, Rowan. A real one. Not a commercial, not a student thing—a real production.”
He hears the words. They just don’t quite settle.
“You’re leaving,” he says.
“Yes—but—” she steps closer again, softer now, grabbing his arm, “you’re staying. You’re fine. I already talked to my dad, it’s handled. You can take my room, or the guest room, whatever you want. There’s a train into the city, it’s like forty minutes—you can do auditions, it’s perfect actually.”
Perfect.
Rowan lets out a small laugh that doesn’t quite land.
“I just got here.”
“I know,” she says again, quieter this time. “I’m sorry. I swear I wouldn’t—if it wasn’t—this is huge for me.”
He knows that.
That’s the worst part.
Of course she booked something. Of course she did. She was always the one who actually got called back, who didn’t freeze in front of casting directors, who looked like she belonged wherever she stood.
Rowan nods once.
“Yeah. Yeah, no—of course. That’s… amazing.”
It is.
It just isn’t what he thought this was going to be.
A heavier set of footsteps crosses somewhere deeper in the house.
Sofia glances over her shoulder.
“Okay, come on—before I go, you have to actually meet him properly.”
That part tightens something in Rowan’s chest.
“Your dad?”
“Yes, my dad,” she says, already moving again. “He’s fine. He just—don’t overthink it. He said you could stay.”
That’s not the same as wanting him there.
Rowan follows anyway.
Marco DeLuca is in the living room now, situating his massive form into a well-worn leather recliner.
Rowan notices him in pieces first—broad shoulders, thick forearms, the kind of presence that fills the space without trying. He's shirtless from what Rowan can see, salt and pepper tufts of hair roaming across his mountainous shoulders. He’s seated, but he still looks large, grounded in a way that makes the room feel smaller around him.
There’s a beer in his hand, it's almost comically small in his giant hand.
He looks over when they enter.
His eyes land on Rowan, and stay there.
Not hostile. Not welcoming.
Just measuring. He takes a swig of the brew, almost finishing it.
“This is Rowan,” Sofia says, like she’s filling space that doesn’t need filling. “From LA. I told you— school?”
Marco nods once, slow. At least acting school worked out for one of them it seemed.
“Yeah,” he says.
His voice is deeper than Rowan expected.
Rowan shifts his weight slightly, suddenly aware of everything—his clothes, his posture, the way he’s standing in someone else’s house with nowhere else to go.
“Hello Mr. Deluca,” Rowan says.
Marco studies him for another second, then gestures vaguely toward the rest of the house.
“You’re good to stay,” he says. “Sofia already explained.”
That’s it.
No questions. No welcome. Just terms.
Rowan nods.
“Thank you.”
Marco gives a small shrug, like it’s not a big deal.
“House rules are simple,” he adds. “Don’t make problems. Don't get under my feet.” Rowan's eyes shoot reflexively to the massive foot resting on the recliner, impossibly large, the big toe pushing through a worn hole in the sock. Rowan quickly returns his gaze to the bearded man's face, then back his best friend's worriedly.
Sofia lets out a quick, nervous laugh.
“He means don’t burn the house down,” she says. “You’ll be fine.”
Marco doesn’t correct her.
The goodbye happens too fast.
It’s hugs at the door again, tighter this time. Sofia clings to him for a second longer than before.
“I’ll text you when I land,” she says. “And I’ll call. Like a lot. You’re not stuck, okay? This is good. You’ll see.”
Rowan nods, even though he doesn’t feel it yet.
“Go,” he says. “You’re gonna miss your flight.”
She smiles, bright and apologetic all at once, then she’s gone—down the path, suitcase rolling behind her, one last wave over her shoulder.
The door closes.
The house settles.
And just like that—
it’s quiet.
Rowan stands there for a second longer than he should.
Then he turns.
Marco is still in the living room.
Still watching.
Not intensely. Not aggressively.
Just… aware.
Rowan clears his throat lightly.
“I can stay out of your way,” he says.
Marco leans back slightly in the chair, considering that.
“You live here right now,” he says after a beat.
Not unkind.
Not kind either.
Just true.
The silence stretches just long enough to settle into something real.
Rowan is still standing near the entry when he hears the shift—the low creak of leather, the subtle weight of someone getting up.
He looks over.
Marco stands.
It’s different now.
Sitting, he was big. Noticeably so, sure—but contained. Framed by the chair, grounded.
Standing, it’s something else entirely. And it doesn't help Rowan's nerves that Marco is only wearing a pair of plaid boxers.
Rowan doesn’t mean to stare, but there’s a second—just one— where his eyes are drawn to something sizeable moving behind the fly of those worn shorts. "I’m not changing how I live." Marco seems to respond as he rises to his full height.
Mr. Deluca is easily 6'10, maybe more in the way he carries it. Broad across the shoulders, thick through the arms, a torso that isn’t carved so much as built—dense, heavy, he's certainly not missed a meal. The kind of size that doesn’t come from a mirror, but from years of lifting, working, carrying.
Rowan has to tilt his chin just to meet his eyes as he approaches.
At 5'1, he feels it immediately. He's always been small, and he's not unfamiliar with this type of feeling. He’s used to it—the way bigger men take up just a little more space than they need to.
Not just shorter—outmatched in space.
Marco fills it. Owns it without trying. The heat practically radiating off the looming tower in front of him. He wonders, briefly, if Sofia’s dad has even showered yet.
Even the small things land heavier. The shift of his weight into the floorboards. The way his presence changes the room just by standing in it.
Rowan, suddenly aware of himself, shifts his weight again. Slim frame, narrow waist, clothes that fit closer than anything Marco would probably ever wear. His pink tank clings slightly from the travel, the line of his body easy to read without trying. His dark brown hair, loose down his back, falls past his waist, brushing against his arms when he moves.
Marco notices.
Not openly. Not with any expression that gives something away.
But his eyes pass over Rowan once, slow and assessing—diminutive height first, then lower. The narrow waist. The softness of his build compared to everything else in the room. A brief flicker lower still to fuller thighs encased in skintight denim—quick, unintentional—before it’s gone just as fast.
A glance. Then away. Men didn't dress like that when he was a young man, that was for sure.
“C’mon,” Marco says, already turning. “I’ll show you the place.”
It’s not an offer.
Rowan grabs his suitcase and follows.
Up close, the house feels less staged than it did at the door.
Lived in.
There are small signs everywhere—mail on the counter, a jacket thrown over the back of a chair, a huge pair of weathered work boots near the back door. Nothing filthy, just… unattended.
The kitchen opens wide, bigger than Rowan’s entire LA apartment.
Stone counters, a heavy island, appliances that look expensive without trying to.
Marco moves through it like it belongs to him—because it does.
Rowan trails just behind, and it’s impossible not to notice the scale difference in motion now. Marco’s stride is longer, heavier.
Rowan’s eyes drop for half a second—again, not intentional. Just… proximity. The shift of fabric as Marco walks. The outline beneath it moving with each step, unbothered, unselfconscious.
Rowan looks away just as quickly.
Marco gestures loosely.
“Kitchen. Help yourself to whatever’s there.”
Rowan nods.
“Thanks.”
There’s a pause, then Marco adds, almost as an afterthought:
“I'm not much for the domestic skills.”
Rowan glances at an empty pizza box and then back to him.
"Her mother used to handle that."
Marco doesn’t elaborate. He just moves on.
They pass framed photos along the wall.
Sofia, younger. Sofia in a graduation gown. Sofia with a woman Rowan doesn’t recognize—but doesn’t need to ask about either.
The absence sits quieter than anything else in the house.
Marco doesn’t look at the photos as they pass.
He opens a door.
“My office.”
It’s functional. Clean, but not styled. Papers, a laptop sitting on a large oak desk with the biggest leather office chair Rowan had ever seen, folders stacked in a way that suggests he knows exactly where everything is, even if it looks chaotic to anyone else.
Rowan nods politely, not stepping in.
Marco watches him again, briefly.
Still measuring.
Next door.
Marco pushes it open.
This one feels more… him.
Weights. Bench. Racks. Plates stacked in neat, worn order. A punching bag that's seen better days lies crumpled on the floor, chain still attached. Rowan eyes the damaged fitting on the ceiling.
"Yeah, been meaning to get that fixed." Marco comments as he absentmindedly scratched the fur across his stomach.
Everything used, nothing decorative.
Rowan lingers in the doorway this time.
“Wow.”
Marco gives a small grunt that could be agreement.
Rowan’s eyes move over the room, then—without thinking—back to Marco.
It connects.
The size. The weight. The way he stands.
It all makes sense here.
Marco catches that look.
One corner of his mouth shifts—not quite a smile.
Marco turns and moves on to the next area.
He reaches the door at the end of the hall, opens it, and jerks his head slightly.
“Down here.”
The stairs are wider than Rowan expects, finished wood, not the creaky basement kind. The air cools as they descend, quieter, more insulated from the rest of the house.
Rowan steps down first.
And then—
The space opens.
It’s not a basement in the way he knows basements.
It’s massive. Fully finished. Another living room entirely, just… buried beneath the house. Low, recessed lighting, dark tones, everything heavier down here. A sectional that could seat ten. A mounted television that takes up half a wall.
To the right—
A full pool table. Not decorative. Used. The felt slightly worn, cues racked neatly along the wall beside it.
To the left—
A built-in bar. Wood and stone again. Bottles arranged without much care for display—just there, within reach. A trash can nearly overflowing with beer cans and at least one empty whiskey bottle.
Rowan steps further in, slow.
“Jesus…”
Marco shrugs behind him.
“Basement.”
Like that explains it.
There’s a bathroom tucked off to the side—door half open. Tile, clean, simple, built for function more than style.
And then—
One door.
Closed.
No light underneath. No sign of use.
Rowan’s eyes linger there a second longer than the rest.
Marco notices that.
Doesn’t comment.
“Nothing you need in there,” he says, casual, already turning away.
That’s the end of it.
For now.
They head back up.
Rowan goes first this time.
The steps feel steeper on the way up, the light from above brighter after the basement’s dim calm.
He’s halfway up when he becomes aware of it—
Not a sound. Not movement.
Just… presence.
Behind him.
Marco is close enough that Rowan can feel the difference again. The scale of him in motion. Each step heavier, slower, controlled.
Rowan adjusts his pace slightly, not thinking about it.
Ahead of him, his reflection catches briefly in a darkened window at the landing—slim frame, narrow waist, the line of his body shifting as he climbs.
Behind him—
Marco’s gaze drops without meaning to.
Follows the movement, the jiggle.
A second too long.
Then lifts again.
Like nothing happened.
Rowan doesn’t turn around.
But something in him tightens anyway.
The back door opens off the kitchen.
Marco pushes it out with one hand.
“Outside.”
Rowan steps through—
And stops.
It’s bigger than the house felt.
The yard stretches farther than it should, a wide expanse of clean-cut grass bordered by tall fencing and dense trees that rise high enough to block out anything beyond them. No neighbors visible. No street noise. Just… contained space.
Private in a way Rowan’s never experienced.
“Wow,” he says, quieter this time.
Marco steps out behind him.
“Yeah.”
There’s no pride in it.
Just fact.
To the right—
A large pool, clean, still, reflecting the late light. Not flashy, but clearly maintained. Built to be used, not shown off.
Beside it—
A partially covered patio. Stone again. Solid.
Under the cover sits a large jacuzzi, built into the structure itself. Steam isn’t running, but it looks like it could be at any time.
There’s outdoor seating—heavy, weathered just enough to show it’s real, not staged.
Rowan walks a few steps closer, taking it in.
“This is… insane.”
Marco leans against one of the posts, arms folding loosely.
“Gets used,” he says.
Which somehow makes it feel more real.
Off toward the far side—
A riding lawn mower sits parked near a small shed. Nothing decorative about it. Practical. Used.
The grass is cut clean, but not obsessively. Like someone handles it when it needs doing.
Which Rowan can guess means—
Marco.
Everything here feels like that.
Not curated.
Maintained.
Rowan turns slowly, taking it all in again—the house behind him, the yard stretching out, the quiet pressing in around it.
It’s too much space.
Too much distance from everything he knows.
He exhales, long.
“Yeah,” he says, mostly to himself this time.
Marco watches him.
Doesn’t say anything.
The big man turns and lumbers back towards the deck and slips into the house, his little house guest right in toe.
They move upstairs and pass a cracked doorway. Rowan scans the large room with its massive unmade bed, articles of clothing scattered around before quickly passing.
They make it down the hall to the last bedroom.
Marco opens it with less ceremony.
“This is what’s open.”
It’s… fine.
Half storage, like Sofia said. Boxes pushed to one side, a folded Murphy bed pulled down into place. Clean sheets, but basic. Temporary.
Rowan steps inside.
“Yeah. This is—this is perfect.”
It’s not.
But it’s something.
Marco leans against the doorframe, watching him take it in.
There’s another one of those pauses.
“You travel light,” Marco says "All you brought was that purse and roller carry-on?"
Rowan scoffs at the mention of his neon duffle bag, then back at him.
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“Didn’t really have a reason not to.”
Marco hums quietly, like he’s filing that away too.
His gaze drifts again—brief, unguarded this time. The line of Rowan’s back as he turns, the way his clothes sit close, the contrast in shape and size.
Then it’s gone.
Marco doesn’t move right away.
Then, like he’s remembering something, he pushes off the frame.
“One more.”
He leads Rowan to the end of the hall to the room directly across from the primary.
A calloused hand opens the door.
This room is different.
Tidy, put together—but softer. Not overly decorated, not saccharine. Just… hers. Clothes hung neatly. A vanity with scattered makeup. A bed that looks actually lived in when she’s here.
It doesn’t feel abandoned.
Just paused.
Rowan steps in slowly.
“She keeps it up when she’s here,” Marco says. “In between everything.”
Rowan nods.
“I can tell.”
There’s something grounding about it. Familiar in a way the rest of the house isn’t.
Marco watches him again, longer this time.
Rowan, standing there, looks even smaller in the space than he did in the hallway. The proportions shift again—Marco in the doorway, broad, immovable; Rowan in the room, slight, soft-edged, everything about him reading differently in contrast.
Marco’s gaze flicks—hair, waist, posture.
A quiet exhale.
“They make ‘em different now,” he mutters, not quite under his breath. Rowan not quite able to hear the whispered insult.
Marco steps back, giving Rowan space to leave the room.
“That’s the house,” he says.
Simple. Final.
Rowan steps out, brushing past him—close enough to feel it again. The difference in height. In weight. In presence. The man must outweigh his 125 lbs at least 3 times, he nearly takes up the entire doorway.
Marco doesn’t move.
Rowan has to pass around him.
“Thanks,” Rowan says.
Marco shrugs before passing the young man, “Let me know if you need help with your bag,” he adds, already turning away as he enters his room, closing the door behind him.
