He didn’t know where she went, and she wouldn’t talk about it. But after the third time, after he spent a week despairing that she might not be able to return at all, he no longer reached out to her.

Tonight, though, something was different. As he lay in bed—awash in want, in grief, in love—his breath stuttered. She reached out for him, as she hadn’t done for two decades.

Her long, gentle fingers caressed his cheek.

They were warm.

22

“I’M STILL THINKING ABOUT HOW I WANT TO TACKLE Aeneas’s Inconvenient Boner Week.” April readjusted her rearview mirror for the thousandth time. “Yesterday, it occurred to me that maybe I could go back to modern AUs without things getting weird, as long as I kept using Wade’s version of Aeneas, rather than yours. Which, admittedly, makes him a million times less hot, but sacrifices sometimes have to be made for the greater good. And by ‘the greater good,’ I mean ‘explicit fucking in my fics.’”

Marcus snorted, but she kept rolling before he could formulate a better reply.

“Speaking of explicit fucking, I should show you my friend TopMeAeneas’s latest magnum opus, “One Top to Rule Them All,” which is sort of a sexy mashup of Gods of the Gates and Lord of the Rings. She took the mount part of Mount Doom very literally.”

The closer they got to Sacramento, the chattier April became.

And yes, she was funny, and yes, he wanted to hear whatever she had to say.

But this wasn’t a happy type of chatty, or even the overly caffeinated cocroffinut type of chatty. Instead, it was the type of chatty where she seemed to want to fill any possible silence, leaving no space for extended thought.

As she talked, she was paying sufficient attention to the highway, but she was also fiddling with the climate settings, the music selection, and the angles of the air vents, restless as she drove in a way Marcus had never witnessed before.

This was anxiety. Plain and simple.

In passing, sometime during their first month together, she’d told him her father was a corporate lawyer, her mother a homemaker. At the time, he should have wondered why she’d failed to add more detail, but he hadn’t. Which was a mark against him, obviously, but also a testament to how deftly April could turn a subject away from anything too uncomfortable. Also an indication that maybe, just maybe, she handled other people’s messy emotions and history better than her own.

Still, if she wanted to chat, he’d chat. If she needed distraction, he’d provide it.

He’d give her anything she wanted or needed, something he’d been trying to prove to her in earnest for the past month, ever since she’d stood naked and shaking in front of him beneath the stark light of her bedroom and asked him to fuck her as a reward. Her reward.

She didn’t understand yet, but she would.

He loved her, loved her, and she was his reward. Touching her was a gift to him.

That night, he’d finally understood just how effectively she’d managed to shield her own vulnerabilities, despite all her seeming openness and the wattage illuminating them both.

The next morning, he’d been determined to learn more. To understand her better.

When he’d woken in darkness, an hour before her alarm was due to sound, she was already awake. At his movement, her head had turned toward him, and her eyes weren’t heavy-lidded with sleep, as they should have been following such a late night.

She was fully alert. Thinking so hard, he was surprised he couldn’t hear the friction.

“Tell me,” he’d said, and gathered her into the crook of his body, an arm under her neck, the other stroking her arm, her hip, her flank as he eased her into the unfamiliar role of little spoon. “Tell me about the call.”

The sheets smelled like them. Like sex and roses, and everything he’d dreamed of.

“My parents . . .” Unexpectedly, she laughed, the sound jarring in the predawn stillness. “The irony, Marcus. The fucking irony.”

“I don’t understand.” He nosed the crown of her head. Pressed a kiss there.

“They’re going to love you. Love you. They’ll approve of you more than they ever approved of me.” She paused. “But not just the real you. The fake you too, the public you. Even if they saw the difference, I don’t think they’d count it as important. Maybe my mom would. Not my dad, though.”

The thought hadn’t occurred to him before, but—“My parents would have killed to have you as their child, instead of me.”

Maybe that should have hurt, but somehow it didn’t. The knife’s edge of his grief had blunted since he’d shared it with April. Since he’d realized he had a choice in how his relationship with his parents would proceed in the future, if it proceeded at all. Since she’d told him he didn’t owe them forgiveness or anything he didn’t want to give.

Besides, how could he begrudge some alternate-universe version of his parents for adoring and admiring April, when he did the same?

“Thus the irony.” She wiggled closer. “All your best qualities, everything that makes you remarkable—that’s not what my father cares about. He’s all about appearances. Surfaces and selling himself to clients. We’re estranged, but my mother is absolutely loyal to him, and she has her own—” As she hesitated, her breathing became a bit ragged. “She has her own concerns. So things can get complicated.”

When she’d fallen silent after her predawn confession, he hadn’t pushed her.

Instead, he’d asked her what she needed from him, and she’d whispered into the darkness.

They’d made love slowly, and not just because she was already tender and slightly sore from their night together. Without urgency, in the dim coolness of her bedroom, in the shared warmth of her bed, he covered her, moved over her, took her beloved face between his hands and made certain—absolutely certain—she saw him seeing her.

Because that was what she’d needed.

Yes, he was beginning to understand her now. It had taken him longer than it should have, but he would make up for lost time today.

She hadn’t asked for his help, because that wasn’t her way. He was helping anyway.

If she needed space from her father, Marcus could give her that space, and she’d already told him how to do it. Her father cared about appearances. That being the case, there was literally no one better suited to occupy his attention and keep him away from April than the Well-Groomed Golden Retriever.

He had his character. He had his script and plenty of motivation.

As soon as they arrived at her parents’ house, he’d be ready for action.

It shouldn’t be much longer, either. The traffic was moving steadily, so they had maybe twenty more minutes to go. April kept glancing in her rearview mirror, as if longing to turn back, but she also kept driving.

After chatting about several more of the latest Lavineas fics—most of which he’d already, secretly, read—April fell silent.

Not for long, though.

“I saw you looking over the scripts again yesterday,” she said, adjusting the fan speed up another notch, then back down again a moment later. “Did you make any decisions?”

Discussing his career might help distract her a bit longer, but there honestly wasn’t much to report. “Nope.”

Some of his options no longer existed, not after such a long wait. Others he still couldn’t make himself commit to, despite all logic and common sense.

When she made a sort of encouraging hum, he willingly elaborated. “I fully understand how lucky I am to have access to those kinds of scripts, and I’m grateful. I really am. I don’t take my ability to make a living from acting for granted, and I appreciate the opportunities and experiences I’ve had more than I can easily express.”

“I know you do.” She flashed him a quick smile before turning back to the road. “When you talk about your work, your gratitude shines through every word. It’s endearing as hell.”

Her regard, her affection, settled softly within his chest, as it always did.

With her, he was always warm. Always full.

“I think there are some great scripts in that stack, but I’m just . . .” When he paused, she didn’t try to fill in the words for him. Finally, he made himself say it. “I’m not sure I want any of those roles.”

None of them felt quite right. Worse, he didn’t know which Marcus should show up for an audition. The real him? Some iteration of the man he’d played in public for almost a decade?

If he wanted to change his narrative, this was his best chance.

He shook his head. No, it wasn’t a matter of if. He did want to change his narrative. It was more a matter of how. It was also a matter of courage. And as he’d told April before, he was no Aeneas when it came to bravery.

“So those roles aren’t what you want. That’s okay.” April reached out to squeeze his knee. “You have time, and you’ll get other offers. Once the last season of Gods of the Gates starts airing and you’re back in the international spotlight, Francine’s inbox will probably be flooded.”

Maybe so. But by then, he’d have ensured a long, long gap between projects.

Unwilling to pursue the topic further, he turned toward April as much as the seat belt would allow. “Speaking of fame, how are you feeling about Con of the Gates? Are you ready for all the attention you’re going to get?”

The convention was coming up next weekend, and they’d decided to make their semi-official debut there as an acknowledged couple. No more avoiding the paparazzi, at least for that weekend. Instead, they would enter the premises proudly and together.

He couldn’t wait. He wanted to show her off, and she seemed both amused and pleased by his eagerness to do so.

When not occupied by the cast’s group panel, an individual Q&A session, and various photo op stints, he intended to have her by his side whenever possible. Although, of course, she had her own commitments, some more recent than others.

“I think I’m ready.” The rapid drumming of her fingers slowed. “I’ve already set aside what I want to pack, and my Lavinia costume is totally done, other than a bit of hem work.”