"Your tie is crooked," I reach up, voice barely louder than the cigarette hiss.
Marco doesn't look at me. He keeps his back to the bed, towel low at his hips, smoke curling up and vanishing into the ceiling vents.
"Is it?" he says, slow and flat.
"Yes," I say. My fingers find the silk and lift it. "Here."
He lets me. My hand slides against warm skin at the base of his throat. He smells like steam and chlorine and the faint metal of stress.
"You're in someone else's bed," he says without looking.
"I'm in ours," I answer. "At least for tonight." My thumb smooths the knot. I pull it straight.
He lets out a breath that isn't a sigh. The cigarette trembles between his fingers.
"Don't make it sentimental," he says.
I laugh. "I'm only correcting your fashion crimes."
He snuffs the cigarette in the marble ashtray. The ash falls in a neat gray pile. Marco's fingers close around my wrist. They are cold.
"You're stubborn," he says.
"I know," I say. I tug the tie until it sits perfect. "You should be too."
His jaw tightens. For one second his eyes find mine. They are the exact color of the Beacon Tower glass at midnight—steady, unreadable. He watches my mouth for a beat, then his gaze slides away.
"You're being reckless," he says.
"Am I?" I smile. "Or brave?"
"Don't try to confuse me
