Elliott Miller is your average 23 year-old, only with a lost father and a resentful mother. When he goes back to his hometown to make amends, he inadvertently gets dragged into the activities of an illicit criminal group.
Enter Marcel Nixon, 25, wh...
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(Two weeks later)
"You know, you still haven't told me that much about yourself."
He looked up from his phone and gave me a quizzical look. I'll admit, I hadn't planned on asking it so bluntly but the thought had been swirling around at the back of my mind ever since Viv drove me here. I'd poured my heart out about parts of myself that I'd kept buried away, but Marcel had never really opened up the same way.
"Come again?" He said setting his phone aside.
"After that night at the park," I started hesitantly, "it feels like you know way more about me than I do of you. And over the past few days we haven't really done much talking... not that it's a bad thing! I mean, if you're uncomfortable or something..." I trailed off when I realized I was rambling. My cheeks burned, especially after alluding the less-than-verbal activities that had been going on. But I felt like it was the right time, since we had the house to ourselves; with Viv away in the city for the next few days before her and Phoenix were set to join us later next week.
Marcel looked at me with a conflicted look in his eyes, his silence eating away at me with each passing second.
"Umm," I stammered, "like I said, if you're not comfortable, I won't push you. In fact, forget I asked, I don't even know what I was thinking when-"
He silenced my gabbling with his lips, reveling in the moment before pulling away with a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
"Of course I'll tell you what you want to know, but my life isn't all that interesting, so I honestly don't know where to begin."
"Okay then, what if I ask a question or two to start?" I offered, attempting to reassure him.
He hummed in agreement and I took that as my cue.
"So uh, what were your parents like?" I tried to sound casual so that this wouldn't come off as an interrogation, but that didn't seem to matter since I seemed to have struck a nerve.
"My parents..." He started, his voice carrying a slight edge.
"Well I don't really know my mom. Basically, my dad-who used to work with Mr. Grey on operations similar to what I do now-was posted in Paris for espionage. He'd begun to cut back on more dangerous tasks by then, so he refused to do anything that involved fighting or armed combats."
"When he was there, I suppose he got a little too comfortable. To put it simply, had a fling one night with this French girl, my mom. But I guess they actually started liking each other because they began seeing each other exclusively for some time. Both of them were in their early twenties so a serious relationship wasn't too high up on their list of priorities."
He paused for a second, and I took that to mean that the next thing was especially painful to recount. So I let him take his time.
"Long story short, he accidentally got her pregnant, like the cliche frivolous couple they were. My dad had always wanted kids at some point, and along with the fact that my mom's family was extremely conservative about abortion and stuff, she ended up carrying us to term. When we were finally born, she was more than happy to hand over sole custody to my dad. My whole childhood and early adulthood was just with him."
"Oh," I replied, earning myself a chuckle.
"One more thing though..."
He nodded, further relaxing into the couch.
"You said 'we' towards the end. Does that mean you had a sister or a brother?"
"Right. Yeah, twin sister. Technically, she's twelve minutes younger than me, so I like to think of myself as the older one. Her name's Violet."
"That's so cool!" I exclaimed. "Can I meet her?"
His expression shifted, his shoulders tensing up. I think I actually struck a nerve now.
"Too soon?" I ventured.
"No, it's not that. I just haven't seen her in years. I don't even know where she is or what she does now."
"Oh, what about your dad?"
He let out a long breath, his gaze fixed at his feet.
"He died years ago. They pulled him in for one last mission before he retired, and he got really injured in a fight. Some anesthesia screw up in surgery caused him to go into a coma. He passed away a year after that."
I was stunned into silence. Here I was, wallowing in my own bad luck, without considering the weight he carried every day.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered.
"Stop," he said firmly. "I'm over it. Besides, I have you now. There's nothing to be sad about."
He reached over, resting his palm against my cheek. His touch was gentle, and the way he smiled warmly. Yet behind the smile, something inexplicable and fleeting clouded his irises.
I leaned into his hand instinctively, my own fingers brushing against his wrist.
"Thank you for telling me all that," I said, knowing that it wasn't just a walk in the park to share vulnerable moments with someone.
He pulled me closer until his face was unbearably close to mine. I leaned in, letting the space between us disappear as our lips met. His lips were soft, moving slowly against mine, deliberate and steady.
When we finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine. His breathing was steady, and his hand lingered on my cheek, his thumb still tracing small, absentminded motions.
His voice broke the quiet. "I love you," he said, his tone clear and certain, like he'd been waiting for the right moment to say it.
I looked at him, the words sinking in. For a second, I let myself take it all in.
"So that's why you've been staring at me like that lately," I said with a small laugh, my voice teasing but soft.
He smiled, his hands sliding down my side and setting at my waist.
"What can I say? I'm predictable."
I placed my hand on his, feeling his warmth. "Good thing I like predictable," I replied, leaning in for another kiss.
Marcel blinked at me, tilting his head. "Wait, hold on," he said, pulling back just enough to look me directly in the eye. "You're not going to say it back? I just put my heart on the line here!"
"Oh, so now you're fishing for compliments?" I decided to string him on for a little longer.
"Compliments? No," he said, feigning offense. "Validation? Absolutely. Do you know how hard that was for me to say? I'm a sensitive guy, you know."
I smirked, crossing my arms as I leaned back slightly.
"Sensitive, huh? Is that what we're calling it now?"
He gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest.
"Wow, this is how I'm treated after declaring my love? What a cold, heartless response."
He pretended to sulk like an unhappy toddler, but his twitching lips gave him away, unable to fully suppress the grin that was beginning to form.
I let the teasing hang for a moment longer before I turned serious.
"Okay, I'll stop," I said, locking my gaze with the emerald sea in his eyes. I held his face in my hands, fingers grazing over the light stubble on his jawline.
"Marcel Nixon, I love you."
"See, now that wasn't so hard, was it?," he smirked, locking his arms behind my back and pulling me closer.
"You're impossible," I laughed, leaning into his arms.
"And you love me for it," he teased, his voice full of mischief, before stealing another quick kiss.
