The sound of the car door closing echoed like thunder in Elena's ears.
Lucía.
The name alone had weight. It filled the air between her and Marco with invisible pressure.
She stepped back from the window, her pulse thudding in her throat. "You didn't tell me you were engaged."
"I'm not," Marco said, voice tight. "Not anymore."
"That's not what it looks like from where I'm standing."
He ran a hand through his hair, stepping toward her, frustration—and something else—flickering in his eyes. "It ended a long time ago, Elena. She wasn't supposed to come back."
Elena crossed her arms, trying to steady the emotions flaring in her chest. Confusion. Hurt. Maybe even jealousy, though she didn't want to admit it.
"You still have feelings for her?"
Marco didn't answer right away. Instead, he moved closer, so close she could feel the heat rolling off his chest.
His voice dropped. "The only thing I feel right now… is you."
His hand found her waist, gentle but firm, fingers splaying against the fabric of her borrowed shirt—his shirt. It still hung off her shoulder, and when he touched her like that, everything that had just happened between them came flooding back.
The kiss. The hunger. The way her body had melted into his like they were made to fit.
"You think I could kiss you like that," he whispered, "touch you the way I did… if I still wanted her?"
Her throat tightened.
He stepped in, closing the distance between them, and brushed his lips along her temple. Softly. Slowly. His hands moved with intention now, finding the curve of her back, guiding her into him until there was no space left.
Elena didn't stop him.
Because despite the confusion, the jealousy, the sting of not knowing everything—she wanted him. She wanted this.
"You're in my head," she murmured, her voice barely audible.
"I want more than that," he said, his breath hot against her ear. "I want to be under your skin."
He kissed her again, deeper this time, like he needed her. Like the world outside that door didn't matter. His mouth moved with growing urgency—never rushed, never greedy, but full of promise. His hands gripped her hips, fingers kneading, pulling her closer. The counter pressed into her back, anchoring her to the moment.
Every kiss was a question. And every answer came in the way she tilted her chin, the way her body arched to meet his.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered again, voice rough.
"I can't," she breathed, eyes closing.
And he didn't.
They moved together like two halves rediscovering each other—fingers exploring, breaths mingling, heat rising in waves. Marco kissed the hollow of her throat, trailing down with reverence. Every touch was a vow. Every shiver, a confession.
He didn't rush. He didn't demand.
He listened—to the way her body responded, to the way her breath hitched when he whispered her name like a secret only he could keep.
"Marco," she gasped, fingers tangling in his hair.
"Yes?"
"Don't stop."