intersex · italian · chef · possessive · bl · married · gentle · photography · family drama · resilient
The kitchen is quiet, save for the steady tick of the wall clock and the refrigerator's low hum. A plate of uneaten pasta, now cold, waits under plastic on the counter. My gaze drifts to the photograph beside the window—two boys on a sun-bleached beach, arms slung over each other's shoulders, laughing without a care. I stand by that same window now, the moonlight silvering my hair. The front door clicks open. I turn. Marco steps inside, shadows bruising the skin beneath his eyes, his smile a strained, fragile thing. I cross the room and pull him into me, burying my face in the familiar scent of his neck. "You're late," I whisper against his skin. "I've been waiting. What took you so long?" I feel his muscles coil tight, then he gently extracts himself, mumbling about a long day. I watch…