Chapter 9 #2
The idea of him being so close, of potentially running into him at the grocery store or the coffee shop, stirs something fluttery in my chest. My pulse picks up just thinking about it, like he’s already living in the spaces between my routines, making them a little less predictable.
“And what about you?” he asks. “You like the clinic?”
“I love it there,” I say. “I can’t imagine doing anything else.”
Rowan’s eyes soften. “That’s perfect for you, Violet. I’m happy you’re happy.”
I give him a small smile because he’s right. I am happy most of the time. My life’s solid, the clinic is like a second home, my routines are comforting, and I’ve learned to find joy in the little things.
Yet…there’s a spot in my life where there’s a question that’s been left unanswered.
“And what about the rest of it?” Rowan asks, leaning forward. “Is there anyone waiting for you at home?”
I fight the urge to wince when Travis comes to mind. God…was it just this morning that everything fell apart?
“No,” I admit. “No one else.”
He nods, just once, his eyes never leaving mine. I can see the relief there, though he tries to hide it.
“What about you?” I ask, suddenly needing to know. “Anyone waiting for you to get back home?”
His mouth quirks up at one corner. “No. There’s never been anyone serious.”
“Never?” I can’t keep the surprise from my voice.
He shakes his head.
He’s single. I’m single. There’s nothing standing between us except this table and my hesitation. We could just pick up right where we left off, but that would be incredibly stupid.
I’ve already let him get closer than I meant to. Close enough that I catch myself slipping back into that pull that’s always been him. And for what? So he can leave again when it gets hard? So I can unravel all over again?
No. Not unless he’s sure this time. I’ve spent too long building myself back up. If I let him in again…
I set my napkin on the table and slide my milkshake away, the strawberry suddenly too sweet on my tongue.
“I should probably go,” I say, my voice steadier than what’s actually going on inside me. “Early shift tomorrow.”
He nods, and there’s unmistakable disappointment in his eyes, but he doesn’t push. That’s new. The Rowan I knew would have either shrugged it off or tried to convince me to stay.
“Can I walk you to your car?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say, and we slide out of the booth. He throws some bills on the table, swatting away my half-hearted attempt to contribute with a flick of his wrist.
The parking lot is nearly empty. When we reach my car, I pause, my fingers tight around my keys. I want to say something, but the words are stuck. I stand there for a second, fidgeting with the metal, the edges digging into my palm.
“So…” I trail off. I have no idea how to end a night that’s sitting somewhere between closure and a new beginning.
Rowan stands there too, hands shoved into his pockets.
The parking lot light casts shadows across his face, making him look even more…
him. Those sharp angles of his jaw. Those lips I’ve never felt on mine.
And those eyes. The same ones that used to haunt my dreams when I thought I’d never see him again.
“I’m glad you came tonight,” he says, breaking the silence.
“Me too,” I admit. “And I’m…I’m glad you’re back, Rowan. Really.”
The words hang between us. His eyes soften, and something shifts in his expression. Relief, maybe, or hope.
“Yeah?”
I nod, unable to look away. He takes a step closer, and I can smell him, that familiar scent of pine and something distinctly him.
“Violet,” he breathes, my name a low, desperate sound on his lips. He steps forward, closing the distance between us before his arms wrap around me, pulling me into his chest.
His warmth surrounds me, and nothing has ever felt so right.
One of his hands slips up my back, fingers sliding to cradle the nape of my neck, while the other settles at my waist. I sink into him, pressing my face into the curve of his shoulder, breathing him in, and for a moment, I let myself have this piece of the dream I’ve carried for so long.
“Fuck, I missed you,” he whispers, his voice rough against my hair, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, because I’ve missed him, too.
When he pulls back—just enough for his hands to cradle my face—his thumbs sweep across my cheekbones with a kind of reverence that steals the breath from my lungs.
My eyes flutter closed on instinct. His breath brushes my lips, and I know he’s going to kiss me.
I feel it in the silence. In the way my entire world seems to tilt toward him.
As much as I want to forget the years and the hurt, I can’t. I open my eyes and press my palms to his chest, right over his heart, where it thuds steady and strong beneath my fingertips. This isn’t just about wanting. It’s about trusting that the wanting won’t break me this time.
“Not yet,” I whisper, the words catching at the edge of my throat.
He doesn’t flinch, just keeps his eyes on mine.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t let go.
He just stays.
I want him to kiss me. God, I do. I want to know if it’s everything I built it up to be in my head. If all those nights I stared at the ceiling, imagining the weight of his mouth on mine, the warmth of his hands, were even close to the truth.
But I need more than just a kiss. I need certainty.
I need to know that this isn’t just the product of loneliness or timing or six years of what-ifs colliding all at once, because regret can be one hell of a motivator.