Rebecca Caruso

My lips still tingled, the phantom pressure of Marco's kiss lingering even as the cool air wrapped around me. I couldn't breathe—no, I wouldn't let myself breathe. Because if I did, it would mean admitting what had just happened.

Marco kissed me.

"I'm sorry," his voice broke the silence, low and rough, dragging me back to the moment.

I startled at the sound, my arms wrapping around myself. He wasn't looking at me. His gaze was fixed somewhere over my shoulder, his broad shoulders rigid, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. Even in his apology, he couldn't meet my eyes.

The weight of his words pressed against my chest, heavy and suffocating. I wanted to respond—to say something, anything—but the words stuck in my throat. What could I even say? That it's okay? It wasn't. I didn't know what it was, but it wasn't okay.

My mind raced, trying to untangle the chaos he'd unleashed with a single moment. Anger simmered beneath my skin. Confusion twisted in my gut. Betrayal lingered on the edges. But worst of all was the feeling I didn't want to name, the one that made me feel unsteady, like the ground beneath me had cracked open and I was free-falling into something I couldn't control.

"Rebecca..." His voice softened, hesitant now. "I crossed a line."

I shook my head reflexively, unsure what I was even denying. That it happened? That it meant something? "Marco, I—" The words caught in my throat. I swallowed hard, trying to push through the knot of emotions tightening in my chest. "It's... fine."

"It's not fine." His eyes flicked to mine briefly before darting away again, guilt carved into his features. "I shouldn't have—I mean, that's not—" He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. His frustration was palpable, almost tangible, as if he wanted to peel the moment away and start over. "I'm sorry."

I didn't know what to do with that apology. It sat between us, heavy and unresolved. My lips still tingled, and my heart still raced, and I felt like I was standing at the edge of a cliff, unsure whether to leap or step back.

Breathe, Rebecca. Just breathe. My mind scrambled for something to ground me, something normal, something to drag me out of this moment before it consumed me.

Coffee. The thought came unbidden but strong. The bitter warmth of it, the familiar clink of the mug against the table. Pancakes, maybe—fluffy, syrupy, ordinary. That's right. I hadn't eaten yet.

The simplicity of it settled me, just barely, like finding footing on shifting ground.

"We should go back inside," I said, cutting through the silence before I could drown in it. My voice sounded steadier than I felt, which was a small mercy.

Marco blinked, startled by my abrupt suggestion, and for a moment, I thought he might argue. Instead, he nodded, his expression unreadable. "Yeah."

His agreement caught me off guard, just like everything else about him.

The warmth of the diner hit me like a slap, the hum of conversation and the clinking of silverware a stark contrast to the weight in my chest. Everything looked the same—people laughing, waiters moving between tables, the hiss of the coffee machine—but I felt out of place, like I'd stepped into a world where nothing made sense anymore.

As we walked in, a waiter spotted us from across the room, his eyes flickering toward us with the usual professional smile. But then, something in the tension between Marco and me must've registered, because he paused, a flash of hesitation crossing his face. He took a step forward, then stopped, his gaze darting between us.

He must've seen it in our faces—the tension, the silence that felt too heavy to break—and, after a beat, he shifted his attention to another table, deciding against approaching us. Instead, he moved on, walking past with a quiet, respectful glance as if acknowledging that some moments were better left untouched.

Marco slid into the booth first, his movements stiff and awkward, like he didn't know how to fit into the space anymore. I hesitated for a fraction of a second before sitting down across from him.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. He stared at his coffee cup, now cold and untouched, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the ceramic. The sound grated against my already frayed nerves, but I couldn't bring myself to break the silence.

"I shouldn't have gotten mad at you," he said finally, his voice low, almost hesitant.

The words jolted me, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. It was like the haze we'd been in outside was slowly dissipating, and reality was beginning to settle around us again. The charged tension between us had dulled, leaving something raw and uncertain in its place.

I flinched, the weight of his words hitting me harder than I expected. My throat tightened, but I forced myself to speak. "You had every right. I get it. I hurt you." My voice wavered, but I pushed through. "I didn't mean to—that's why I wanted to tell you. I wanted you to know. I didn't want secrets between us."

He frowned, the question lingering in his eyes. "Why?"

I swallowed hard, a weight pressing down on me as I considered the question. I could feel the answer pushing against my ribs, wanting to get out.

Why? I couldn't do the cliché. I knew how those things went—half-truths, lies, plots that unraveled with a single confession. They always ended the same way, and I wasn't about to let that happen.

Why?  He deserved the truth, even if it went against my better judgment.

Why?  Because, fuck judgment altogether.

"Because... secrets breed lies, and resentment, and hatred, and..." I stopped, the weight of those words settling on my shoulders. My hands curled into fists on my lap, nails digging into my palms as I fought to stay steady. I could almost hear the echoes of my current relationship.

"I never sold you out. I'm not working for the feds. I'm not phoning in information, and I'm certainly not pretending to be someone I'm not." The words were sharp, coming from a place of resolve, a reminder that I wasn't trapped in a relationship full of silence and compliance.I took a breath, exhaling sharply as my voice softened. "You asked if it was real—and it is. I'm here. With you."

Marco's jaw tightened, his dark eyes lifting to meet mine. His expression was hard, but his voice was steady, tinged with an edge of disbelief. "Okay," he said, his tone flat, almost like he was bracing for impact. "Tell me everything. From the beginning. From the moment you first walked into the Alcove."

The way he said it, like he was daring me to share it all, made my stomach tighten. He wasn't asking to judge me—not yet. He just wanted the truth. All of it.  And maybe, just maybe, he'd make his decision after he heard it all, after he understood it all. I wasn't sure if that would help or hurt, but it was the only play I had left.