The rain tapped against the window, soft and steady, filling the quiet of her small bedroom. The air smelled like him—cologne, cigarettes, and something deeper, something that lingered even when he was gone. The sheets were a mess beneath them, tangled and damp with heat.

She was curled into his side, her fingers trailing over the tattoos on his forearm, memorizing the ink like it would somehow keep him here longer. She knew it wouldn’t. It never did.

Marshall lay back against the pillows, one arm behind his head, his other hand lazily holding a cigarette. The faint glow of the cherry tip pulsed in the dark. He looked comfortable, like he belonged here. But he didn’t.

“You good?” he asked, his voice low, rough.

She swallowed. “Yeah.”

It was a lie, but she told it anyway. Because if she told the truth—that every time he left, it felt like a piece of her went with him—he wouldn’t stay. And she wasn’t ready to watch him walk out that door just yet.

He smirked a little, like he didn’t believe her, but he didn’t push. He never did. He just reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before running his thumb across her lips. A simple touch, but it sent a shiver through her.

“You think too much,” he muttered.

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Maybe.”

What she didn’t say was that she thought about him. About how he’d never be hers. About how this—these stolen nights, these borrowed moments—were all she would ever have.

And she’d take it. Over and over again.

Because when he kissed her again, slow and deep, pulling her beneath him like she was the only thing he wanted in this moment… it felt real.

Even if she knew, when morning came, he’d be nothing but a ghost in her bed.