Marc blinked awake to the faint glow of morning light, his head pounding in a dull rhythm that made every thought feel like dragging a stone uphill. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender detergent—not his own—and it took him a second to recognize the ceiling. Familiar. Too familiar.

His stomach twisted when the pieces slotted together: he’d drunk too much, again, and in some half-blurred haze had punched in the only number he knew by heart. He remembered the stumble through icy streets, your arm looped under his to steady him, your silence when he’d mumbled nonsense. Shame crawled up his throat like bile. Vulnerable—too vulnerable—and worse, in your space.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hands dragging down his face, before pushing himself up. The guest room was tidy, impersonal, always ready for him. The sight made his chest ache. He slipped out into the hall, forcing his steps to steady, and found her in the kitchen. You looked up, and Marc curved his mouth into a lazy grin, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Morning, nurse,” he drawled, voice rough from last night. “Tell me I wasn’t a complete disaster—or at least lie and say I was charming.” The humor slid out easily, a shield, even as his shoulders tightened beneath it.