Marked

CHAPTER TWO

I shouldn’t still be thinking about him.

I don’t think about men after I leave rooms.

That’s kind of the point.

But even in the back seat of the Uber, with the city sliding past and my phone buzzing with messages, he’s there. Not his face. The feeling. That pressure in my chest. That strange awareness, like something unfinished followed me out of the gallery.

I don’t go home.

I go where noise lives.

Leila texts first.

Leila: we’re not letting you disappear after that entrance.

Neo: location. now.

I send it and change the driver’s direction.

The bar is already full when I get there. Gold light. Bodies close. Music heavy enough to sit on your shoulders.

Neo spots me before I even step inside and opens his arms like a headline.

“There she is.”

Leila stands beside him, already holding a glass, her eyes bright.

“You vanished.”

“I circulated,” I say. “Like a social person.”

Neo laughs.

“You escaped.”

“Same thing.”

They pull me in. We drink. We talk over each other. Leila tells a story about a collector who tried to bargain like he was buying tomatoes. Neo is already being filmed by someone near the bar.

People look.

People always look.

It’s familiar. Comfortable.

Men come up. Compliments. Invitations. Numbers written into phones. I answer the way I always do.

Light. Controlled. Untouchable without being rude.

But something’s wrong.

Every time someone leans close to speak into my ear, my body stiffens instead of softening. Every time a hand settles at my waist, I feel impatient.

Not flattered.

Not curious.

Restless.

We move to a club down the street. The kind with a line outside and bass you feel before you hear. Inside, the lights are low and the air is warm and everything is moving.

This is my environment.

Music in my bones. Rhythm in my hips. Sweat. Laughter. Neo on someone’s shoulders. Leila dancing like she’s never had a bad day in her life.

I should be in it.

I am in it.

And I’m not.

Because every dark corner looks like him.

Every still figure pulls my attention.

Every quiet space feels like it’s waiting.

I drink more than I planned.

By the time we leave, my heels are in my hand and my head is light in a way I don’t love.

I hug them both.

Promise brunch.

Lie.

The Uber ride home is quiet.

That’s when I make the call.

It isn’t emotional.

It isn’t dramatic.

It’s muscle memory.

A name I don’t have to think about. A number my phone knows by heart.

Someone easy.

Someone familiar.

Someone who always answers.

⸻

I don’t even change my clothes when I get home.

Shoes kicked off. Bag dropped. Shower running.

Hot water fills the room with steam.

My hands move over my skin like I’m trying to remind myself where I am.

My apartment.

My body.

My life.

But when I close my eyes, I don’t see tile.

I see eyes.

I eat something standing at the counter. I don’t know what it was. I don’t taste it.

When the knock comes, my hair is still damp.

Right on time.

He smells like outside and a cologne I’ve smelled before. He smiles like he always does. Like he already knows how this night usually ends.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

He talks about his day. Traffic. Work. Nothing.

His hand settles on my thigh.

Normally this is where I soften.

Tonight, my body goes quiet.

Not tense.

Just absent.

He kisses my cheek. The corner of my mouth.

I let him.

But I don’t move toward him.

My mind drifts somewhere it shouldn’t.

Stillness.

Fire.

A voice near my ear telling me not to drink something.

His fingers slide higher.

And suddenly it’s too much.

Not him.

The room.

I pull back.

He laughs softly.

“What?”

I stand.

“I’m done.”

He blinks.

“Done with what?”

“With this.”

There’s a moment where he waits for the joke.

It never comes.

“Elena—”

“Please leave.”

The word please is polite.

My voice isn’t.

He studies my face.

I open the door.

“Now.”

He leaves.

I close it and rest my forehead against the wood longer than I mean to.

My chest feels tight.

Not panic.

Awareness.

I lock the door.

The apartment is quiet again.

And somehow it doesn’t feel empty.

I crawl into bed and turn off the light.

Sleep comes when it wants.

And when it does, it carries him with it.

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