The drive back is quieter, but not empty.
The truck hums beneath them, steady and low, the kind of sound that fills space without demanding attention. Rowan sits angled toward the window, one knee turned slightly outward, his sleeve pulled halfway over his hand. The road stretches ahead in long, clean lines, trees slipping past in soft blur.
Marco drives one-handed again, relaxed in a way that feels unshakable. The other hand rests loosely against his thigh, fingers barely moving. There’s no tension in him. No excess energy. Just a kind of grounded stillness that makes everything around him feel slower.
Rowan watches the window longer than he needs to.
Then—
“Your card declined.”
It lands flat. No edge to it. Just fact.
He stiffens anyway, jaw tightening before he can stop it. “Yeah.”
Marco doesn’t look over right away. Just keeps driving.
“You fix it?”
“I transferred money,” he says, sharper than intended. “It’s fine.”
A small nod from Marco. Nothing else.
Silence settles again.
“I haven’t booked anything in a bit,” Rowan adds after a moment, quieter now.
Marco glances at him briefly. “Acting.”
“Yeah.”
“How long?”
He shrugs, eyes dropping. “Last gig was four months ago. The coffee shop was the only thing keeping a roof over my head.”
“And now?”
Rowan pauses, fingers tightening slightly against the fabric at his wrist. “Now I need to figure something out.”
A beat.
“I need to book something soon.”
Marco considers that for a second, then nods once, like he’s filing it away.
“City’s close,” he says. “Train’s easy.”
Rowan nods. “That’s the plan.”
That’s where it ends. Not cut off—just finished. Marco turns onto their road, and the quiet settles back into something neutral.
They pull into the driveway just before noon.
The house looks different again in daylight. Still large, still more than Rowan is used to, but less imposing now—like it belongs in the world instead of hovering just outside of it.
Inside, Marco moves automatically, unloading groceries with quick, practiced motions. Rowan lingers near the counter, watching without meaning to.
It doesn’t take long to notice the pattern.
Pre-packaged everything. Microwave trays, protein bars, frozen burritos. Chips. Sugary drinks tucked into the back of the fridge.
It’s not clean eating. It’s just fast.
Fuel, when it needs to be. Junk, when it doesn’t matter.
Rowan leans lightly against the counter. “This is what you usually eat?”
Marco shuts the fridge. “Yeah.”
“All of it?”
“Most of it.”
He glances back at the counter, then at Marco. “You don’t cook?”
“Not well.”
That tracks.
Rowan shifts his weight. “I can cook.”
Marco looks at him—just looks. Not questioning, not impressed.
He shrugs. “Nothing crazy. Just… actual food.”
A second.
Marco nods once. “Have at it.”
That’s it. Rowan gets to work.
Lunch ends up simple. Grilled chicken, rice, and a basic salad Rowan mostly ends up eating.
Marco eats everything.
Quickly. And a lot.
“So,” Rowan says lightly, “better than microwave lasagna?”
Marco swallows, takes another bite. “Yeah.”
Rowan presses his lips together, hiding a small smile. “High praise.”
There’s a shift at Marco’s mouth. Brief. Gone as soon as it’s there.
The next couple of days fall into a quieter rhythm.
He doesn’t cook again right away. He’s not sure how often he should, or if that first meal was a one-off. Instead, he fills his time the way he always has—phone in hand, scrolling casting calls, submitting where he can, trying not to think too hard about the gaps between responses.
The house stays quiet during the day.
Too quiet.
By Monday afternoon, he starts moving through it just to feel something different. The layout is still unfamiliar, but he’s starting to learn it—where the light hits in the afternoon, which floors creak, how sound carries.
Eventually, he chooses the gym.
Not because he stumbles into it. Because he needs something to fill the hours.
The room is bigger than it needs to be. Organized. Built for someone who uses it often. Free weights lined up in precise order, racks, machines—everything heavy-duty, nothing decorative.
Rowan stands in the doorway for a second.
The air hits him first.
Rubber. Metal. Something faintly stale under it—sweat worked into the room over time, not fresh, but not gone either. Lived in. Used hard.
It smells like effort.
Like something built for someone bigger than him.
Then he steps inside.
He starts light. Stretching. Testing things out. It’s been a while since he’s had access to something like this, and it shows—not in weakness, but in hesitation. He moves slower, more deliberate, reacquainting himself with the rhythm of it.Over the next couple days, it becomes part of the routine.
Morning or early afternoon. Whenever the quiet starts pressing in too much.
He gravitates toward what feels familiar. Controlled movements. Lower work. Stability. Things that don’t require a spotter, things he can focus on without overthinking.
It gives him structure. Something physical to ground the rest of the day.
By Tuesday evening, Marco comes home later than the night before.
Rowan hears him before he sees him—the front door, the heavy step inside, the weight of someone who’s been moving all day. He looks up from the couch just as Marco appears.
And pauses.
Marco looks worn.
Jeans dusted with dirt. Construction boots still on. A white tank clinging to him, darkened with sweat. His shoulders sit heavier, like the day hasn’t quite let go of him yet.
Rowan knows he owns the company. Has heard enough of the calls in passing—permits, timelines, subcontractors, numbers that sound too big to belong to someone who comes home like this. High-end builds. Custom homes. The kind of places people don’t touch once they move in.
Doesn’t look like it.
Marco steps inside, rolling one shoulder like something in it pulls. Drops his keys on the counter without looking. There’s drywall dust along his forearms, caught in the hair there.
“Long day?” Rowan asks, before he can stop himself.
Marco exhales once through his nose. “Framing ran long.”
Rowan nods like that means something.
Marco glances at him, then down at his own hands, flexing them once.
“Guys move slower when someone’s not watching,” he says. “Not when I’m there.”
“Plus,” he adds, voice rough, “that’s one less guy I gotta pay.”
Rowan huffs a quiet breath.
Marco shrugs one shoulder again. “Office guys get soft.”
There’s no edge to it. Just a statement.
Rowan’s eyes flick down—boots still on, dirt trailing faintly behind him, shirt sticking to his back.
“Doesn’t seem like you’re worried about that,” he says.
Marco snorts softly. “Not yet.” Absentmindedly adjusting his crotch as he responds.
Rowan watches him a second longer than he means to.
Then—
Marco moves through the room and drops onto the couch without hesitation.
Doesn’t take his boots off.
Doesn’t move much at all. Just reaches for the remote and turns on the TV, settling into a college football game like it’s the only thing holding him upright.
Rowan watches for a second, then looks away, fingers pulling at his sleeve again.
“Would you get me a beer?”
Rowan nods, grabbing one and handing it over before stepping back out of the way.
Marco’s fingers brush his for half a second. Unintentional. He doesn’t react.
Rowan does.
He retreats to the dining room.
Hours pass.
Marco eventually gets up, microwaves something, eats standing at the counter, then disappears up the stairs.
The next night is the same.
And the next.
Sofia calls Thursday afternoon.
Rowan answers in his room, pacing once before dropping onto the edge of the bed.
“Hey.”
“Hey! How is it? Are you alive?” she asks, bright and fast.
Rowan huffs softly. “Yeah. I’m alive.”
“Is he being weird?”
He leans back, staring at the ceiling. “No. It’s just… not what I thought.”
A pause.
“I know.”
“I thought you’d be here,” Rowan says. “You just left.”
“I didn’t just leave,” she says, softer now. “This came up last minute.”
Rowan exhales. “Yeah. I just—” He stops. “It’s different without you here.”
Silence stretches.
Then—
“I’m sorry.”
He closes his eyes briefly. “I know.”
Another pause, then she shifts. “Can you just keep an eye on him? If you have time?”
Rowan frowns slightly. “Your dad?”
“He won’t say anything if he’s pushing too hard. He never does.”
He thinks about the last couple nights. The boots. The way Marco doesn’t even bother taking them off before sitting down.
“…Yeah,” he says finally. “I can do that.”
After the call, Rowan notices more.
Friday, when Marco comes home, the boots land in the same place—right in front of the couch. Socks get pulled off and left where they fall. A shirt gets tossed aside without much thought.
Not messy. Just too tired to care.
He doesn’t touch anything at first.
He just watches it happen.
Saturday, he does laundry.
His own.
He gathers his clothes, sorts them, starts a load. But on his way back through the living room, he pauses.
The socks are still on the table.
The shirt still where it was thrown.
He hesitates.
Then bends, picking them up, adding them to his pile without making anything of it.
It feels normal.
Like something that happens when you stay.
Later that day, outside near the back of the house, he finds the boxers by the hot tub—slightly damp, half-forgotten.
He stares at them for a second.
“Seriously,” he mutters under his breath.
Then picks them up anyway.
That night, he cooks again.
Pasta this time. Garlic-heavy, simple, warm. Marco pauses for a fraction of a second before eating.
He finishes everything.
Sunday, Rowan makes something heavier. Chicken again, but different. Potatoes, butter—something closer to comfort.
Marco eats two servings.
He doesn’t say anything.
But he slows down a little.
By the following week, groceries start changing.
Not completely. The frozen meals are still there. The junk food hasn’t disappeared.
But there’s more.
Raw chicken. Steaks. Rice. Vegetables.
Things that require time.
Marco doesn’t comment.
Rowan doesn’t either.
Rowan books one audition.
Just one.
He stares at the confirmation email longer than he should before stepping into the kitchen.
“I’ve got an audition,” he says.
Marco looks over. “Yeah?”
“In the city.”
A nod. “Good.”
“I’m gonna take the train.”
“Station’s ten minutes.”
Rowan nods. “Yeah.”
When he gets back later that day, the house is quiet again.
Marco is already home.
His boots sit near the door, abandoned where he stepped out of them.
Rowan pauses.
Then bends, picking them up.
They’re heavier than he expects.As he turns them, something catches his eye inside the tongue.
A tag.
He leans slightly.
Rowan lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Twenty-one. Jesus,” he murmurs.
He sets them down neatly, adjusting them so they sit evenly.
Then steps back.
The house still isn’t what he expected.
But it’s starting to feel lived in.
