Rowan doesn’t sleep much that first night.
It isn’t the bed—if anything, it’s too good. The mattress molds to him in a way he can’t quite define, supportive without pressure. The sheets are cool, smooth, faintly scented with something that reminds him of Sofia.
It’s the quiet.
It settles over everything, thick and complete. No traffic. No neighbors. No distant hum bleeding through thin walls. Just—
A creak somewhere deeper in the house.
Pipes shifting. Water running briefly. Then stillness again.
Rowan lies on his back, one arm resting over his flat stomach, the other tucked beneath his head. His hair fans across the pillow in long, uneven waves, catching the dim light from the window.
Marco.
The thought lands differently now. Sofia’s dad. His house companion for the next several months.
Alone in the house with him.
Rowan exhales and rolls onto his side, pulling the sheet higher. He shuts his eyes.
Morning comes too fast. Soft light spills through the tall windows, washing everything in pale gold. Rowan blinks, disoriented for a moment before memory settles back in.
Right. New York. The house.
Marco.
He pushes himself upright, stretching—arms overhead, spine arching, ribs tightening beneath his skin. His body feels light, a little sore from travel and broken sleep.
He swings his legs over the side and stands, bare feet meeting the cool floor.
No shirt.
The house is warm enough, and he doesn’t feel like adding layers. Hell, Marco doesn't seem like he cares about formality anyway. He pulls on a pair of soft house shorts, the thin fabric resting low on his hips, barely structured.
Easy. A little exposed, maybe. He pauses at the mirror.
His hair is a mess—long, wavy, falling past his shoulders in loose tangles. He runs his fingers through it, separating strands, letting the rest fall naturally.
His face still carries sleep—soft, slightly unfocused, lips parted.
He lingers. Then turns away.
The house feels different in daylight.
Still large. Still quiet. But warmer now, filled with light instead of shadow.
Rowan moves down the hall, footsteps soft. The faint smell of coffee pulls him forward.
The dining room opens before the kitchen.
He stops there.
A long wooden table stretches across the space, sunlight catching along its surface. It feels formal—almost too much—but also like the place you’re supposed to sit when you’re not sure where else to go.
So he does.
He pulls out a chair, settling into it, one leg tucked slightly beneath him. His posture folds inward without thought—shoulders loose, arms resting lightly across his middle.
He hears Marco in the kitchen. Cabinets. Movement. The steady rhythm of someone entirely at home.
Rowan exhales slowly.
Okay. Just act normal.
Marco appears a moment later.
Rowan looks up—and immediately regrets doing it so quickly.
Marco is barefoot, in low-slung gray sweats that have seen better days, no shirt, completely at ease. His presence fills the room without effort.
And he’s holding two mugs at waist height, his hand grazing the drawstring of his sweats.
Rowan’s gaze drops instinctively, then flicks back up—but not before registering how close Marco is standing.
Close enough that—
Yeah. Eye level is a mistake.
Rowan straightens slightly, warmth creeping up his neck.
Marco sets the mug down in front of him like it’s routine.
“Morning.”
His voice is low, rough with sleep.
Rowan clears his throat. “Morning.”
Marco lingers for a second.
And Rowan becomes aware of everything—how he’s seated, how little he’s wearing, the way his body draws inward without meaning to.
Marco’s gaze stays on him. Not intrusive. Just steady.
Rowan reaches for the mug, needing something to do with his hands.
“Thanks.”
“Mm.”
Marco steps back just enough to lean against the table, lifting his own mug.
Rowan takes a sip. Black. Of course.
Silence settles again, heavier this time.
“You sleep?” Marco asks.
Rowan shakes his head. “Not really.”
Marco nods once. “Too quiet.”
Rowan glances up, then back down. “It’s nice, though. Just… different.”
A pause.
Then—
“You’re smaller than I thought.”
Rowan freezes, then lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Oh—did you think every guy is a…” He gestures vaguely up and down Marco’s frame.
“Behemoth?”
Marco’s mouth shifts, barely.
Rowan looks up again, a little more guarded now—but curious.
Marco sips his coffee. “Suppose not.”
Rowan presses his lips together, hiding a smile.
"So how little are you, actually?"
Rowan pauses for a moment before answering. "Well, with a sturdy shoe I can hit 5'1!"
The older man chuckles before sipping his coffee.
The tension doesn’t leave. It just settles into something quieter. Rowan shifts slightly, drawing one knee closer to himself without thinking.
Marco notices. He says nothing.
Instead—A low, unmistakable sound breaks the quiet.
Rowan blinks. Marco glances down at his own stomach.
“Guess I need some grub,” Marco mutters.
Rowan huffs softly, tension easing.
“We’ll go out. Need groceries anyway.” Not a question.
Rowan nods. “Okay.” Marco is already moving.
Rowan heads back to his room, steps quicker now. The quiet doesn’t feel as heavy anymore.
He shuts the door behind him.
Clothes.
He swaps into slim-fit denim shorts, fitted just enough to feel familiar. A black hoodie follows—lightweight, close-fitting, sleeves long enough to cover his hands. Safer.
He checks himself briefly in the mirror.
Hair down. Still messy, but workable.
Good enough.
—
Marco is already at the door when Rowan returns.
Khaki pants. A fitted polo stretched across his shoulders and chest. Clean, simple—somehow making his size more noticeable, not less.
White dad sneakers. Huge. Rowan slows slightly, taking it in.
Marco grabs his keys. “Ready?”
“Yeah.”
They head out.
—
The truck is absurd. Rowan stops at the edge of the driveway.
“Is that—”
“F-350,” Marco says, already walking toward it. “Lifted.”
Of course it is.
It sits high enough that Rowan has to look up to take it in. Thick tires, exaggerated suspension—the whole thing built like it belongs somewhere far rougher than a grocery run.
Marco climbs in like the height doesn’t exist. Rowan walks to the passenger side. Opens the door.
Stops. That’s… high. He lifts his foot, hesitates—
Marco watches curiously from the other side, barely able to see the top of the boy's head from his vantage. He smiles to himself, exiting the truck.
"Here."
Marco’s voice, close behind. A hand settles at Rowan’s waist. The other at his hip.
Large. Solid. Spanning more than it should. Rowan inhales sharply.
Then he’s lifted—effortless, controlled—guided onto the seat like it’s nothing.
But it isn’t nothing. His face heats instantly.
“Thanks,” he says quickly.
“Mm.”
Rowan adjusts himself, pulling the door shut, suddenly aware of the height, the space, the truck shifts as Marco hops in, how small it feels now that he’s inside.
Engine turns over.
—
Backing out—
Marco shifts into reverse, one hand on the wheel.
Then his arm comes up, stretching across the back of Rowan’s seat.
Over him. Close enough to feel.
Rowan stills.
Marco turns, looking out the back window. His torso shifts, the armhole of his polo pulling open—just inches from Rowan’s face.
Rowan’s gaze flicks—
—and lingers for a second too long.
Skin. Hair. Shadow. Musk.
Too close.
He looks forward again, gripping the edge of his sleeve. The truck rolls back smoothly.
Marco straightens, shifting into drive.
—
The grocery store is busy enough to feel normal.
They grab a cart—Marco does.
Rowan walks beside him.
People glance. Subtle. Quick.
At Marco.
Marco ignores it completely. Rowan stays close.
—
Marco piles items into the cart; chips, frozen entrees, protein shakes, cookies, canned soups.
Then Rowan drifts toward produce.
“Hold on,”
Marco pauses.
Rowan moves to one of the refrigerated bins, leaning over the edge to reach the berries stacked toward the back.
It’s farther than it looks.
He bends more.
Then more—
Until he’s nearly folded over the edge, one hand braced on the rim, stretching to reach the container.
The position is… not subtle.
His shorts ride slightly. Hoodie pulling up just enough.
He finally grabs the carton, pulling back upright, brushing hair from his face. Then glances up.
Marco is watching. Expression unreadable.
Rowan drops it into the cart, and they move on. He adds rice, a few salad mixes, yogurt—things that feel more like him. Whole foods.
Rowan shrugs lightly. “I’ll just pay for my stuff.”
A beat.
Marco nods. “Do what you want.”
Rowan relaxes slightly.
—
“Marco!”
The voice comes from behind. They both turn.
A woman approaches quickly, smiling wide.
“Oh my god—Sofia—you went brunette!”
Rowan blinks.
She steps closer—Then stops.
“Oh—”
Her expression shifts.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought—”
Rowan laughs lightly, brushing his hair back. “It’s okay.”
Marco exhales through his nose.
“This is Rowan. Rowan, this is Martha,” he says, gesturing to the woman—part of the congregation at their church.
She recovers quickly. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
"He's staying the summer with Sofia."
Rowan glances up at him.
A brief exchange. Then she moves on.
—
Checkout is quick. Rowan goes first, placing his items on the belt.
The total flashes. He taps his card. Declined.
His stomach drops.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, fumbling for his phone. “One sec—”
He turns slightly away, opening his banking app, transferring money over with practiced speed.
Embarrassing.
He taps again.
Approved.
“Sorry,” he repeats, quieter this time, grabbing his bag. Marco doesn’t comment. Just waits.
—
They head out together.
The air outside is warm.
The truck waits where they left it.
And the space between them—still unfamiliar.
