Broken Promises and Midnight Confessions

Stacey's words echo in my head like poison, driving me forward through streets I barely see. My heart pounds with a desperate rhythm – find him, confront him, understand why.

All I knew was that I needed to find Marcus. Right. Now.

Before I could talk myself out of it, before I could process the storm of emotions twisting inside me, I grabbed my phone and texted him.

Me: Where are you? We need to talk.

No answer. I clenched my jaw, gripping my phone tighter.

Fine.

If he wasn’t going to answer—I’d find him myself.

Marcus's apartment complex looms ahead, modern and sleek, everything I'm not.

By the time I arrived at Marcus’s apartment, my heart was slamming against my ribs, my pulse wild and erratic.I barely had time to knock before the door swung open—and there he was.

Standing barefoot in sweatpants and a loose hoodie, his hair slightly damp like he had just come from the shower.

His brows furrowed, his expression a mix of surprise and concern. "Betty?"

I didn’t give him a chance to say anything else. "We need to talk."

His jaw ticked. Something in my voice must have told him this wasn’t just one of our usual fights. Because without a word, he stepped aside, letting me into his space.

The kitchen is all clean lines and stainless steel, cold and impersonal like the walls he builds between us. The moment we stepped into the kitchen, the tension exploded.

My hands shake as I turn to face him, adrenaline and anger warring in my veins.

"Did you do it?" I demanded, my voice sharp, breathless, filled with anger and confusion.

Marcus frowned, leaning against the counter. "Do what?"

"You know exactly what I’m talking about," I snapped. "The competition. Nationals. Stacey told me it wasn’t our performance that got us in. It was you. You pulled strings, didn’t you?"

His expression shifted—from confusion to something colder, unreadable. The silence stretched thick and suffocating. And then—he nodded.

Yes.

I felt the ground tilt beneath me. My breath caught, my throat tightening. A mix of anger, humiliation, and something dangerously close to hurt clawed at my chest.

The truth hits like a physical blow, stealing my breath.

"How could you?" The words come out as a whisper, then build to a shout. "We earned that spot! We fought and bled and created something beautiful from nothing, and you – you made it worthless!"

"Worthless?" His voice cracks like thunder in the quiet kitchen. "I did it for you!"

"I didn't ask you to!" I slam my hands against his chest, fury and hurt spilling over. "I didn't want your help, your interference, your – your charity!"

His jaw clenched. "You did earn it."

"Not if you had to step in!" I shouted.

He let out a bitter laugh, his eyes darkening. "You think you wouldn’t have made it without me? You think you didn’t deserve it?"

"That’s not the point, Marcus!"

"Then what is, Betty?" he snapped, stepping forward, his frustration palpable. "That I didn’t tell you? That I wanted to make sure you got the recognition you deserved?"

"No, the point is that you keep screwing with my life!” I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “One second you’re pushing me away, the next you’re pulling me back in! You’re so freaking reckless, Marcus! And it’s driving me mad!"

His eyes flashed, his breath coming in ragged and uneven.

"You think I don’t know that?" he growled. I swallowed, my chest rising and falling too quickly.

"Then why?" I whispered, my voice barely holding together. "Why do you keep doing this? One moment you’re all that cocky, the next one you’re passionate, and then suddenly you’re cold and distant. You act like you want me—like you need me—but then you act like I don’t even exist to you."

His entire body tensed. I took a step closer.

"I need to know, Marcus. I need to know if this—" I gestured between us, my voice breaking. "If whatever the hell this is, is real. Or if I’m just—"

"You’re not," he cut in, his voice low, rough, raw. I froze. His chest heaved, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "You’re not just anything, Betty."

The air crackled. His hands slammed against the counter behind me, caging me in, his body just inches from mine.

"You want to know why I act like this?" he growled. "Because I don’t know how to want you without destroying everything else in my life."

My breath hitched.

"You think I wanted this? To be so fucking obsessed that I can't think straight anymore? To want you so badly that it gets me out of my mind?"

The confession hangs in the air between us, raw and real and terrifying. I stare at him, my pulse racing beneath his fingers.

"You're in my head," he continues, voice dropping to a ragged whisper. "Every minute, every day. I try to stay away, try to remember everything I'm supposed to want, supposed to be. But then I see you – fighting, creating, refusing to break – and I..."

His words trail off, replaced by something darker, hungrier in his eyes.

"I can’t stop," he admitted, voice hoarse, his jaw tight. "I can’t stop wanting you, touching you, wondering about you. No matter how much I try, no matter how much I tell myself I need to stay away—I can’t."

His eyes locked onto mine, burning with something dangerous.

"You’re in my fucking head, Betty," he whispered.

"Marcus—" His name catches in my throat as he steps closer, backing me against the counter.

"I can't have you. I shouldn’t," he breathes against my skin. "But I can't stop wanting you either."

My lungs forgot how to work.

I am stunned. Speechless. Overwhelmed.

But then the last thread of restraint snaps between us.

His mouth crashes into mine, desperate and demanding, and I'm lost. My fingers tangle in his hair as he lifts me onto the counter, stepping between my thighs like he belongs there.

His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, and I welcome the pain – proof that this is real, that I'm not dreaming.

He kisses like a man drowning, like he's trying to consume me from the inside out. His touch burns through my clothes, leaving trails of fire across my skin. I know we should stop, know this can only end in more pain, more complications.

But I'm tired of fighting what I feel, tired of pretending he doesn't set my world on fire.

"Tell me to stop," he growls against my neck, but his hands are already sliding under my shirt, mapping my curves like territory he's desperate to claim. “Tell me to leave you alone, to forget about you.”

“Would you really do it if I told you so?” I asked, barely managed my voice between moans that flew out of my mouth.

He hesitated first, but then with all certainty, “Fuck no.”