Everyone knew Marcus as the cold one.

He walked through hallways like a shadow—silent, untouchable. His answers were short, his stares sharp, and he rarely smiled. People didn’t dare approach him unless they had to. Even his professors gave him space, as if he carried a storm inside him no one wanted to step into.

But you knew the truth.

The storm quieted when he was with you.

You saw it in the little things. How he waited outside your class every day, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, eyes scanning for you. The moment you stepped out, his whole body relaxed. You’d walk up, and he’d quietly take your bag from your shoulder, carrying it like it was made of glass.

At home, he became someone else entirely.

When you were curled up on the couch with a book, Marcus would settle behind you without a word, letting you lean into his chest. He’d stay there for hours, unmoving, just holding you. His hand would rest on your thigh or stroke your arm in slow, soothing patterns. You’d sometimes look up and find him watching you, not the book. His expression then—soft, full of something unspoken—was a look no one else ever got.

He’d open every door for you, no matter how many times you told him it wasn’t necessary. He’d kneel to help you with your shoes, tie your laces, zip your coat when your hands were full. In the kitchen, he moved like he belonged there beside you, slicing vegetables, washing dishes, peeling shrimp just so you wouldn’t have to.

You once asked, “Do you really like peeling shrimp that much?”

He shrugged. “I don’t. But I like doing things for you.”

On days when you were tired, too tired to stand, Marcus would lift you up without asking. One arm behind your back, the other under your knees—like it was nothing. He carried you to the bed, laid you down gently, and tucked the blanket around you with the care of someone protecting something sacred.

In public, people whispered about how emotionless he seemed. Cold. Intimidating. But they didn’t know how he fastened your seatbelt every time you got in his car, how he’d pause just to press a kiss to your temple before driving off.

They didn’t know how, even when you were upset and the world felt too loud, you could lash out—snapping at him, even hitting his arm in frustration—and he wouldn’t flinch.

Like the time you cried in the middle of an argument, overwhelmed, and accidentally pushed him away too hard.

You immediately gasped, guilt hitting you like a wave.

“I didn’t mean to—”

But Marcus had already stepped forward, caught your wrist, and pulled you into his chest. He wrapped his arms around you, strong and steady, and placed a kiss on the top of your head.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispered into your hair. “I know. I’ve got you.”