Chapter 67

Leila's POV

Sunlight is already on the broken glass when I open my eyes, bright across the floor, rude as hell, and me and Marshall's mess is right there before I even move.

The vase is smashed near the wall, the lamp is broken, the couch is crooked with one leg snapped clean off, and a book is lying open near the rug because once the yelling stops being yelling and turns into angry fucking, nothing around us stays where it's meant to.

We don't even make it to the bedroom, which isn't shocking, not for us, not after the yelling, not after him punching the wall, not after me throwing shit at his head, not after both of us saying things we definitely meant and definitely should've kept to ourselves.

Now we're on the floor, wrapped in the throw rug, half covered, sore as hell, tangled together like that somehow makes any of this less ridiculous.

Marshall's arm is still draped over me, his bruised hand resting on my waist, fingers moving slow against my skin, his breath warm on the back of my neck like he didn't help turn the living room into something I'm absolutely not cleaning by myself.

I shift slightly and groan, because soreness shoots through my hips and thighs straight away, my back aches where it scraped against the brick wall, and my muscles feel like I spent the night fighting, fucking, and losing whatever common sense I had left.

There's satisfaction under the ache, which is annoying as fuck and very unsurprising of me.

Marshall's voice comes thick with sleep, rough against my shoulder, with that familiar teasing edge already in it "You alive?"

"Barely" I mutter, stretching slightly under the throw rug and regretting it immediately "I feel like I've been hit by a wrecking ball"

He chuckles, his chest vibrating against my back "Wrecking ball huh? That's cute, but I'm pretty sure you're the one who bulldozed through the place last night"

I roll my eyes, half smiling as I glance back at him, even though moving hurts and smiling at him feels like rewarding bad behaviour "Me? You were the one ready to tear through a brick wall"

His lips brush my shoulder as he grins against my skin "You didn't seem to mind"

I huff, because I didn't, and I hate that he gets to know that before coffee "Yeah, well, if we keep this up, we're not going to have any walls or furniture left"

Marshall's bruised hand slides up my bare waist, gentle now, which is a bit fucking rich after the way he had me last night "I'll rebuild it all, but tell me you don't love it"

I sigh, because the warmth of his breath against my neck is already making my body act stupid again "It's unhealthy, you know that right?"

He grins, pulling me closer like unhealthy has ever stopped either of us "Yeah, but it feels too fucking good to stop"

He isn't wrong, which is irritating.

As fucked up as we are, as ugly as our fights get, the aftermath is always the part that gets me, not because it fixes anything, it absolutely fucking does not, but because after all that screaming and breaking shit, his hand on my waist still feels better than it should.

I groan softly, both from the ache in my body and the heat still sitting under my skin "Okay fine" I admit, half laughing even though it pulls through my stomach "It's pretty fucking phenomenal"

Marshall's hand tightens slightly on my waist, his voice low, playful, and far too pleased with himself "That's what I thought"

I smirk, feeling his lips trail along my shoulder "But don't think that means you're off the hook for breaking the couch"

He chuckles again, the sound rumbling against my back "Oh, I know, but maybe we should stop pretending like we don't both enjoy breaking shit"

I turn my head slightly, meeting his gaze, and his eyes are still heavy with sleep, but he's looking at me like he remembers exactly how we ended up down here and is way too proud of himself for a man lying beside a broken couch.

"I think we both know we're not stopping anytime soon" I say, shaking my head.

Marshall's grin widens, his lips brushing against my neck "Nope, and next time I'll order a sturdier couch, or at least one that can survive us for more than a month"

"If it survives" I tease, half sighing "At this rate, the furniture store's going to blacklist us"

He laughs, his breath hot against my skin "Good thing we've got that double coffin on backorder"

I snort, shaking my head, and immediately regret it because my stomach pulls "At least they make those things sturdy, you'd better hope it's built for two"

His voice drops lower, rougher, his hand pressing flatter against my waist "You think I'm letting you go without me?"

I meet his gaze, my pulse picking up because I know he means it, and after last night I'm not stupid enough to pretend he doesn't "Not a chance"

He leans in and kisses me slow, and it shouldn't work, not with broken glass still on the floor, not with his knuckles dried with blood, not with my body sore from him and that couch broken beside us.

It works anyway, of course it does, because his hands move up my body, rough but familiar, careful enough to annoy me, warm enough to make me forget I'm supposed to be mad about at least twelve things.

When he pulls back, his eyes lock on mine, and he's still looking at me like he wants me, even with broken glass on the floor and his hand busted from the wall.

"You mad?" he asks, smirk tugging at his lips like he already knows the answer.

I smile, leaning my head against his chest, feeling his heartbeat under my cheek "No, I guess we'll deal with the mess later"

His hand slides down to rest on my waist, pulling me closer "Later sounds good"

We lie there, wrapped in each other and the throw rug, the living room still wrecked around us, broken glass on the floor, the lamp broken near the wall, the couch crooked with one leg snapped clean off, and none of it feels as shocking as it probably should because this is us, this is what we do, we fight, we break shit, we fuck like we're trying to kill the argument with our bodies, then we lie there acting like the mess is something separate from us.

"You know we're fucked for each other right?" I murmur, closing my eyes as I sink deeper into him because looking at him while saying it feels too honest for this early.

Marshall's lips brush my ear, his voice low and rough "Yeah, but it feels too fucking good"

And that's the truth, as bad as we are for each other, as much as we wreck shit and turn everything into a fight or a dare or a fucking disaster, it feels too good to let go, the sex, the heat, the way he holds me after, the way I want to smack that smug look off his face and still crawl closer, the way I love him so much it makes me act like a fucking idiot, the way my mouth keeps running because if I shut up too long he might see exactly how bad he has me.

I should get up, find my clothes, find painkillers, check if there's glass in the rug, and maybe make one normal decision before noon.

Instead I stay there with his arm around me, sore, still pissed at him, still wanting him, because apparently when it comes to Marshall, I've had no common sense for years.

For now, we've got the quiet after the fight, the broken couch, the sore bodies, the mess we're not dealing with yet, and I already know it won't last long before one of us says the wrong thing and we start all over again.

And honestly, I don't want it any other way, which is probably the most fucked up thing about me.