Marco's room was dimly lit, quiet except for the soft hum of music from his speakers. Leni sat cross-legged on his bed, laptop open in front of her, half a paragraph typed before she'd stopped trying to concentrate.
He sat beside her, leaning back on his hands, gaze drifting toward her more than the screen. And for once, she didn't shy away from it.
Her skirt was short—shorter than usual, maybe unintentionally so—but she hadn't expected the way his stare would settle on her like that: intense, unreadable, but never crude.
"Enny," he said, his voice a low rasp.
She looked up, eyes wide.
And that was all it took.
He leaned in, gently guiding her down onto the bed with careful hands, not forceful—just certain. His body hovered over hers as his lips found hers again, like he was chasing the heat from yesterday's kiss that hadn't left either of them.
His kiss was hungry, yes—but it was the gentleness that undid her.
His hand slid to the edge of her skirt, and he paused—thumb brushing lightly along the fabric as if he was trying to fix it, even now. Trying to protect her. Always.
But she didn't move. Didn't stop him.
She didn't want to.
Her breath caught, but not from nerves—from wanting to be seen like this, touched like this… only by him.
And Marco, despite the fire in his chest, didn't rush. His touch was slow, careful, his lips moving with hers like every second mattered.
Because to him, it did.
Because this wasn't about a skirt.
It was about her.