The Past He Hides and the Truths I Bury

The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the city outside Marcus’s window.

Our bodies were tangled together, our skin still warm and flushed from everything that had happened that night.

I was lying on his bare chest, my fingers lazily tracing small circles over his skin, while his arm remained firmly wrapped around my waist, holding me close, like he wasn’t ready to let go yet.

I didn’t know how long we had been lying there. Minutes? Hours? I didn’t care.

For the first time in forever, I felt… safe. Not just because I was in his bed, in his arms. But because—for the first time—we weren’t fighting.

We weren’t pushing and pulling, tearing each other apart. We were just here. Together. And maybe—just for tonight—that was enough.

I felt Marcus’s chest rise and fall beneath me, his breaths deep, steady, thoughtful.

"Stop thinking so loud," I whispered, my voice rough with emotion.

My fingers itched to trace the lines of tension in his face, to smooth away whatever demons were haunting him in this moment of quiet.

Marcus's laugh was bitter, brittle. "Can't help it. Some thoughts won't shut up."

His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, but his hand found mine in the darkness, fingers intertwining with an urgency that spoke volumes.

The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken confessions. I could feel his pulse through our joined hands, slightly too fast, slightly too hard.

Whatever was coming, it would change everything.

Then, his fingers slid through my hair, his voice low, rough, almost hesitant when he finally spoke.

"I used to wish my father would just hit me," he murmured.

I froze. Marcus never talked about his family. Ever.

I lifted my head slightly, resting my chin on his chest as I gazed up at him. His jaw was tense, his eyes staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.

"What do you mean?" I whispered.

His grip on my waist tightened slightly, like he needed something to hold on to.

"He never did," Marcus continued, his voice flat, almost emotionless. "He was too careful for that. No bruises. No marks. But his words—" He let out a bitter chuckle. "They cut deeper than any punch ever could."

My chest tightened.

"He always expected more," he muttered. "More discipline. More success. More… perfection. And when I failed—because I always failed—he made sure I felt it. The disappointment. The disgust. Like I was nothing more than a fucking mistake."

I swallowed, my heart aching for him.

"My mother never stopped him," he continued. "Not once. She just—stood there. Like she was waiting for it to be over. Because she’d been through it, too. Maybe even worse."

His voice was flat, detached—but I could feel the pain beneath it.

"I grew up knowing that nothing I did would ever be enough for him," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. "So, I stopped trying. I stopped caring. I focused on basketball, on my reputation, on being someone people respected. Someone they feared."

His voice dipped lower. "And then, there was you."

I held my breath. He turned his head slightly, his eyes finally meeting mine, and for the first time, I saw it.

The vulnerability. The exhaustion.

"You weren’t supposed to get to me," he muttered. "But you did."

Something inside me tightened, twisted, burned. I didn’t know what to say. Because I understood. More than he knew.

I inhaled shakily.

"I lost my mom when I was fourteen." I whispered. His gaze snapped to mine.

The silence stretched between us, thick, charged with something heavy.

"I didn’t know how to handle it," I admitted. "It was sudden. It felt like—one moment, she was there, smiling, laughing, making me tea in the morning—and the next… she was just gone."

Marcus’s grip on my waist tightened.

"My dad didn’t know how to handle it either," I continued. "But instead of grieving together, we drifted apart. He threw himself into work, and I—" I swallowed hard. "I was just… there. Alone. Lost."

I let out a breath, shaking my head.

"Then he remarried. And suddenly, I wasn’t even part of his world anymore. He had a new wife. A new life. And I was just—" I let out a bitter laugh. "A burden. An inconvenience."

Marcus was silent. Completely still. I bit my lip. "And then there was university. A new city, new people. And Stacey."

Marcus’s jaw tensed. "You already know how that went," I whispered.

His fingers trailed up my spine slowly, carefully, his touch soothing in a way I didn’t expect.

"I hated how alone I felt," I admitted. "How easy it was for people to just… step on me. Laugh at me. I kept hoping that maybe, if I was just good enough—if I worked harder, if I smiled more, if I kept my head down—maybe someone would see me. Maybe someone would care." My voice cracked. "But no one did."

Marcus let out a sharp breath, his fingers gripping my chin, tilting my face up until I was looking at him again.

His gaze was dark, intense, burning with something raw. "I see you now," he said.

The air between us was thick, charged, like something had shifted forever.

Then—Marcus sighed. And when he spoke again, his voice was different. Softer. Rougher.

Regretful.

"I’m sorry," he murmured.

I blinked. Of all the things I expected him to say—that wasn’t one of them.

"For what?" I whispered.

"For all of it," he admitted. "For the insults. The way I treated you. The bet."

I swallowed hard. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

"I didn’t come up with it, actually," he said, his voice tight with guilt. "But I didn’t say no, either. I should have. I should have fucking walked away. But I didn’t. Because I was too much of a coward to risk my reputation. To risk what people would think of me."

He clenched his jaw. "And that? That makes me an even bigger asshole."

The silence stretched between us. I could tell he was waiting—waiting for me to yell, to push him away, to tell him I hated him.

But I didn’t. Because the Marcus lying beside me right now—wasn’t the same Marcus who had laughed at me months ago.

He was different. Or maybe—he was finally letting me see who he had been all along.

I reached out, trailing my fingers across his jaw, my chest tightening at the way he leaned into my touch.

"You hurt me," I whispered. His eyes flinched. "But I believe you," I admitted.

His gaze locked onto mine—intense, unblinking, unreadable. And then, he spoke again. Told me everything. About Stacey’s mother. Her influence over his family. My father.

The pressure. The control. The expectations.

And by the time he was finished, I wasn’t just shocked.

I was furious. But as the anger slowly faded, something else remained. Relief. Because for the first time—we weren’t hiding anymore.

We had laid everything bare.

Our scars. Our truths. Our wounds.

And even though nothing was certain, even though I didn’t know what came next—I knew this. I was no longer alone. And as Marcus’s arms wrapped around me, as his breath evened out, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.

I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe—he wasn’t alone anymore, either.