Chapter Thirteen – Rowan #2
Because you’re mine to worry about lives right behind my teeth, too loud, too soon. I take the safer road. “Because people panic near fire. You didn’t. Still doesn’t mean I liked seeing you that close.”
After a beat, she murmurs, “I grew up around people who expected me to be strong. Even when I wasn’t.”
I dab again, gentler. “You were smart out there.” I meet her eyes briefly, enough for the truth. “And brave.”
Something eases in her shoulders. “You’re not used to people showing up for you, are you?”
I look back down and reach for the saline. “Not like that.”
The spray makes her hiss. I lean in and blow cool air across the sting without thinking. Her hand curls into the edge of the chair. Mine tightens—briefly—on her calf.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“Don’t be.” Her voice is just above a whisper.
I pat the skin dry, swipe a thin line of antibiotic ointment, then smooth a large bandage over the worst of it, palm lingering a second longer than medically necessary. The air goes thick and careful. The kitchen clock ticks too loud.
“All patched,” I say, voice a notch lower.
She tips her head, studying me like I’m a map she’s finally learning to trust. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, Ivy.”
Her mouth pulls into a small, tired smile. “You’ll return the favor when I inevitably do something else reckless?”
“Already did.” I nod toward the counter. “Water’s there. Sit a minute.”
She reaches for the glass, our fingers skimming. It’s nothing—barely contact—but heat pricks up my arm like I stuck my hand too close to the burner. She feels it too. I see it in the way her breath stalls.
“Ivy,” I say, because saying her name buys me a second to pick the right truth, “I’m not good at this part.”
“What part?” She holds my gaze.
“The part where I want to wrap you in bubble wrap and also stand back and let you be exactly who you are.” I scrub a hand over my jaw. “I’m trying to get it right.”
Her lips part. The kitchen gets smaller. “You’re doing fine.”
I nod once because if I say more, I’ll say everything. I ease her foot to the floor, slowly sliding away my fingers. She doesn’t move for a beat, then sets the empty glass down, the soft click as loud as a promise.
“I should get cleaned up,” she says, glancing toward the cottage through the window’s dark pane.
“I’ll walk you.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean.
We step back onto the porch. The path forks—left to the house, right to the oak and her door. Two pools of light spill onto the gravel, gold halos almost touching. We stop at the seam where they don’t.
“Thank you, Rowan.” Her eyes shine, not with tears—something steadier. “For the knee. For… earlier.”
I tip my chin. “Anytime.”
She takes one small step backward into her pool of light. I stay in mine. Our shoulders almost brush where the glow overlaps. Her fingers twitch like she might reach across the gap. Mine do the same.
“Good night,” she says, soft as a secret.
“Night, Ivy.”
She turns, and I let her go the last few yards alone, the crunch of her steps fading under the hum of cicadas.
I stand there until her porch light flips on and her shadow moves across the curtain.
Only then do I breathe, slow and careful, like a man who knows the thing he almost touched is still right there, waiting.
My limbs are heavy, like they’ve absorbed all the heat of the flames we just fought. Or maybe I’m just carrying too much—too much anger, too much regret, too much want.
I toe off my boots and strip off the smoke-stained T-shirt, the collar stiff with ash and sweat.
The muscles in my back pull tight when I reach for the hem.
Everything aches, but not in a bad way. It’s the ache of being alive.
The ache of coming close to something I’ve been too scared to want: Ivy Quinn.
That damn woman with fire in her soul and a mouth that tastes like sin.
I head straight for the shower, twisting the knob hard until steam pours out in thick curls.
The mirror fogs up before I even step inside.
The hot water hits my shoulders like a wall, searing and brutal.
I close my eyes and let it burn. I need it to.
Need to scrub away the scent of smoke. The feel of panic.
The adrenaline. But I also need to forget the way her lips parted right before I barely brushed my lips against hers.
The breath she caught in her throat. The quiet plea in her voice when she said kiss me like it means something. Christ.
I brace both hands against the tile wall, water running down my spine in rivulets. My forehead drops between my arms.
It shouldn’t have happened. She was Crew’s. Sort of. n ot really. But once. The unspoken rule alone should be enough.
Except she came back.
Except she showed up at that fire like she belonged beside me. Like we were something worth fighting for.
And when she leaned in… God. My body knew hers before my brain caught up.
The flash of heat. The rightness of it. I twist under the spray, jaw clenched so tight it aches. My chest heaves.
I want her. I haven’t let myself admit it—not fully.
But there’s no hiding it now. Not when I’m rock-hard under the water, pulsing with need.
It’s not just the way she looks—though, damn, I could lose my mind staring at her mouth alone. It’s the way she moves. The way she sees me.
Like I’m more than a past I don’t talk about. Like I’m not broken in ways even I can’t name.
I imagine her stepping into this shower. The steam curling around her skin. Her hands sliding up my chest. Her voice low, whispering my name as she presses her curves against me.
I reach down, grip tight around the ache that’s been building since that kiss.
A breath escapes my lips.
It’s her face I see behind my eyes. Her breathy laugh. The way her lashes flutter when she’s nervous. The heat in her eyes when she dares me to close the distance as I wrap my fingers around my throbbing shaft.
I stroke slow and steady. Let the water drown out everything else. She’d be warm against me. Soft and sweet and strong enough to ruin me.
I’d push her against this wall, press my mouth to hers, trace every inch of her with my hands and tongue. I’d whisper all the things I’ve never said aloud—how I see her. How I want her. Not just in the heat of this moment, but in the quiet after.
In the mornings when her hair’s a mess and she wears oversized T-shirts and hums songs under her breath like she did in the cottage kitchen that first day.
My hand tightens, pace picking up.
I want to know how she tastes when she’s mine. Want to hear her say my name like it’s the only word she remembers. I groan, low and rough, the sound echoing off the tile. It doesn’t take long. The tension coils. Snaps.
I brace a hand on the wall, eyes squeezed shut, breath ragged as everything inside me shudders loose.
When it’s done, I lean against the tile, chest heaving, forehead wet with sweat and steam.
And still, she’s there. In my head. In my chest. In me.
I rinse off fast, then shut off the water. Wrap a towel around my hips and move through the dark house barefoot and dripping. I don’t turn on any lights. Because I know what I’ll see if I do.
The empty porch swing. The space beside me where she should be. The ache that lingers long after release.
I fall into bed still damp, towel half loose around my waist, hair wet against the pillow.
Sleep doesn’t come.
Not with Ivy etched into every thought, every beat of my heart.