Chapter 5: Unscripted Kisses

I stared at Marcus, confused—wasn’t he supposed to hate his drama queen wife? Instead, he looked away, fiddling with his shirt hem, cheeks flushed.

Finally, he said quietly, "Okay, I won’t be mad."

I breathed out, relieved. But his jaw was still tight, face red. Was he angry, or just embarrassed?

I remembered Harley’s advice—kiss, blow on the wound, say something sweet. First, I kissed his injured waist, then blew on it, then pressed a kiss to his cheek. His skin burned under my lips, his breath catching.

I threatened, "Don’t be ungrateful," but my voice trembled.

Before I knew it, Marcus shifted, propping himself up on the bed and gently setting me down beside him, keeping space between us. His eyes searched mine, emotions swirling.

He asked, "Who taught you this?"

My heart skipped. "Harley."

He pressed a hand to his forehead. "Don’t hang around her too much. She’ll lead you astray. Let’s put on the medicine first."

I straightened my back, remembering my mission—to make things hard for Marcus, keep him on his toes until he found the heroine who’d heal him. I crossed my arms, chin up. "You do it for me."

He just nodded, squeezing ointment onto his fingers. His hands, rough from years of work, applied the medicine gently enough to make me squirm.

"You do the front yourself," he said, ears pink. He handed me the ointment, then handed over the house keys, voice gentle but firm: "I’ll be working the next couple of days and won’t come home. You’ll be alone—lock the door, don’t go wandering."

He counted out his last few bills—wrinkled, worn, precious—and pressed them into my hand. I stared at the bills, already calculating how far they’d stretch—maybe enough for groceries, but definitely not for Starbucks.

"Take this. If it’s not enough, I’ll give you more in a few days."

I pointed at his bandaged hand. "Will you get hurt?"

He shook his head. "Not this time."

He left in a hurry, footsteps swallowed by the city noise. For days, he vanished—no calls, no texts, nothing. I paced the apartment, Harley shrugged, "He’ll turn up."

So I wandered the park, coffee in hand, wind biting through my jacket. Kids played, pigeons strutted. I took another sip of cheap coffee, the wind biting through my jacket. If Marcus didn’t come back soon, I wasn’t sure who I’d be anymore—or if I’d even want to find out.