Chapter Eight
Cade
By half past five, the social department has finally quieted down. I shut down my computer, grab my jacket, and head toward the elevators. The building is starting to empty, but I still take my time, enjoying the low hum of the place winding down for the day.
When I reach the underground parking garage, the first thing I notice is the empty space where Rowan’s Jeep should be.
His spot is conspicuously vacant. Rowan’s almost always the last one to leave…
he stays late, works through dinner, and avoids going home until he has no choice.
Seeing the space empty this early sends a flicker of irritation through me.
I frown as I walk over to my Porsche, unlocking it with a soft chirp. I slide into the driver’s seat and close the door, the familiar scent of leather surrounding me. For a moment I just sit here, staring at the empty parking spot.
Curiosity, and something sharper, wins out. I pull my phone from my pocket and open the secure app my father had developed years ago. It tracks every entry and exit through the garage’s gate system. I scroll through the log, watching clients and staff come and go throughout the day. Then I find it.
12:36 pm - Rowan Adley, exit only. No re-entry.
He left hours ago and never came back. I can already picture him sulking in the apartment, locked away in his room, replaying everything that happened in his office this morning until he’s sick with shame.
The thought angers me, the way he ran instead of facing it.
But underneath the irritation, a thread of genuine concern weaves through.
I saw the look in his eyes when he pushed me away afterward: raw shame, confusion, and tears he couldn’t quite hide.
It doesn’t bother me what we did. We’re not blood-related, but I know Rowan won’t see it that way.
He’ll tear himself apart over this, convinced he’s done something unforgivable.
I start the engine, the low growl filling the garage, fingers tapping against the steering wheel.
…
The drive from the office takes me straight to a dingy little drive-through on the edge of the industrial district…
the kind of greasy, no-frills place most people in my position would never admit to visiting.
The neon sign flickers above the faded menu board, and the smell of hot oil and grilled meat hits me the second I roll down the window.
I don’t care. Their burgers are really fucking good, the fries are always crisp and salty, and the shakes are thick enough to stand a spoon in.
It’s my guilty secret, and tonight I’m not in the mood to pretend I want something refined.
I order two double cheeseburgers with extra pickles, large fries, onion rings, and two chocolate shakes.
Then, almost without thinking, I add a grilled chicken sandwich with no sauce and a side of their seasoned curly fries, the type of thing Rowan used to inhale when Ann forced him to eat during his sulking phases as a teenager.
He always claimed he wasn’t hungry, but the second something familiar and uncomplicated was put in front of him, he’d slowly start picking at it. I’m hoping the same trick still works.
The bag is warm and heavy in the passenger seat by the time I pull out of the lot, the smell of grease and melted cheese filling the Porsche.
I take a long sip of my own shake as I merge back onto the road, the sweetness cutting through the salt.
It’s stupid how comforting this ritual feels, but right now, I need it.
…
Twenty minutes later I’m parked in our building’s underground garage. The bag rustles softly when I pick it up, the drinks balanced carefully in the cardboard carrier.
I know he’s up there. I know he’s probably locked himself in his room, replaying every second of this morning until he’s convinced himself he’s ruined everything. He’s going to fight me on this… on the food, on talking, on all of it. But I’m not letting him hide forever.
I climb out, lock the Porsche behind me, and head for the elevator.
The ride up to the nineteenth floor feels longer than usual.
My heart rate picks up with every passing floor, a steady thump I’m not used to feeling.
I’m normally calm in almost any situation, but this is different.
I’ve never done anything quite like this before, not really.
I’ve never cared enough about someone to go out of my way to feed them, just because I know they probably haven’t eaten all day.
My past relationships were surface-level; even the ones that lasted longer never missed meals, even if their idea of dinner was a sad bowl of leaves and grilled chicken.
This feels bigger than simply bringing my stepbrother dinner in case he skipped eating. This is me hoping he’s okay. Hoping he’ll actually eat. Hoping we can talk through what happened this morning without him shutting me out completely.
When the doors slide open, I tuck the warm paper bag under the arm that’s already balancing the drink carrier, and fish the key out of my pocket.
I send up a silent prayer that it still works.
Thankfully, it slides in smoothly and turns with a soft click.
I wouldn’t have put it past Rowan to change the locks in the six hours since he ran out of the office.
I step inside, lock the door behind me, and drop the keys into the bowl next to Rowan’s. The apartment is dim, lit only by the glow of the TV.
What I don’t expect when I round the corner of the sectional is the loud, slurred greeting. “There he is!”
My eyebrows shoot up. Rowan’s voice is thick with alcohol, the words dragging heavily.
He’s sprawled on the couch, curls an absolute mess, nursing a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
He’s wearing grey sweats and an oversized tee that’s soaked through, dark patches under the arms and across his chest, a mix of spilled liquor and nervous sweat.
I’m instantly displeased. There’s a sharp, possessive edge to the feeling…
I don’t like the idea of him sitting here drinking alone all afternoon.
It’s bad for his body, it won’t fix whatever storm is raging in his head, and he could easily make himself sick.
I reach down and pluck the bottle from his loose grip.
“Hey man, that’s… m-mine!” he protests weakly, making a half-hearted grab for it.
I smirk at the pathetic attempt and set the bottle on the coffee table, well out of reach.
Rowan crooks his finger at me with a lazy grin. “C’mere.”
I lean closer to hear him better, and he takes the opportunity to grab my shirt and yank me down. I land on his lap with a surprised laugh. This is not at all how I thought tonight was going to go.
His hands immediately slide along my thigh, bold and uncoordinated. “Have you always been this… s-sexy?”
I stare at him for a heartbeat, then can’t help the stupid grin that spreads across my face. Even drunk, the compliment lands somewhere deep and warm in my chest.
“You can tell me again when you’re sober,” I murmur.
Rowan laughs, the sound loose and sloppy. “I’m not druunkk!”
I raise an eyebrow at the way he stretches the word out dramatically.
He presses a finger to my lips. “Shhhhh.”
I try to stand, but he wraps both arms around my waist like a stubborn octopus, holding me in place. Okay… what on earth is happening right now? I know it’s the alcohol, but I still never expected this reaction from him.
“Let go,” I say, voice low and deep.
Rowan tenses for a second, then slowly leans back, grinning up at me with a bright, flushed smile. “Yes sir.”
My eyes widen. He’s… flirting… blushing, biting his lower lip, looking far too pleased with himself.
I clear my throat and finally manage to sit down properly on the couch, reaching for the takeout bag.
Rowan immediately scoots right up against my side like a heat-seeking missile. “What you got there, handsome?” he asks, voice still slurred but full of curious delight.
I laugh again, shaking my head. I know he’s either going to forget all of this tomorrow or regret every word, but right now I’m enjoying it more than I probably should. Still, I remind myself he’s not in his right mind.
I pull out the grilled chicken sandwich and curly fries I got specifically for him and set them on the coffee table in front of him.
Rowan looks at the food, then at me, and actually pouts, a soft, genuine little pout. “Aww, you got me food?”
I nod. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”
“You c-care ‘bout me,” he says, almost wonderingly.
I roll my eyes, but I’m grinning. “Obviously, idiot.”
Rowan’s face lights up with a wide, drunken smile. “Thank you, baby.”
I freeze mid-reach for my own burger. Baby. The word hits me like a spark straight to the chest. My mind blanks for a second.
Rowan doesn’t seem to notice my reaction. He’s already leaning forward and taking a massive bite of the sandwich, moaning loudly around the food at how good it tastes.
I slowly pick up my cheeseburger and take a bite, trying to shake off the strange warmth the pet name left behind. I grab the remote and unmute the TV, switching off whatever trashy reality show he had on and putting on something mindless and familiar instead, easy to watch.
Baby… he didn’t mean it, he’s drunk. But some dark, possessive part of me is quietly satisfied as I glance sideways at him. Rowan gestures at the curly fries with his mouth full and gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
I laugh quietly and shake my head. Christ.
…
It’s late now, the city lights outside the windows are glowing softly against the dark sky.
I had to put some space between us. Rowan has been incredibly touchy all evening…
hands on my thigh, fingers brushing my arm, leaning into me every chance he got.
I can’t think straight… but, God, I like it too much.
The warmth of his body, the easy affection in his drunken state…
it’s addictive. But I know he isn’t thinking clearly, and the last thing I want is to take advantage of him while he’s this far gone.
I’m leaning against the kitchen sink, slowly drinking a glass of cold water, trying to collect my thoughts, when I hear the TV click off. A groggy moan follows, then the soft padding of bare feet across the hardwood floor.
I set the glass down just in time. Rowan grabs my arm, his grip loose but insistent. “Time f-for… bed.”
I turn, frowning slightly. I let him pull me along, assuming he’s heading for the couch where I’ve been sleeping. Instead, he turns down the hallway, leading me straight toward his bedroom.
I let out a low laugh. “Uh, Rowan?”
“Mhmm?” He glances back at me with a sleepy, lopsided smile as he pushes the bedroom door open.
“What are you doing?” I ask, voice quieter now.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he continues tugging me toward the bed. I manage to slip my hand free at the last second.
I laugh again, this time a little nervous. “I really should sleep on the couch, Ro.”
Rowan doesn’t seem to hear me. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats and pushes them down, wobbling dangerously as one foot gets caught.
He peels off the sticky, alcohol-soaked t-shirt next, tossing it somewhere on the floor, then flops face-first onto the bed in nothing but his boxers.
I swallow hard, offering a tight smile. “You good?”
He rolls onto his back and pats the empty space beside him. “Let’s sleep.”
“No, Ro. That’s not a good idea,” I say, even as my eyes trace the lines of his body against the sheets.
“Please…” His voice is softer now, almost pleading. “I-I promise I won’t complain in the morning.”
I study his face. Surprisingly, it looks steadier than I expected, less sloppy, more earnest. I sigh, turn around, and quietly close the bedroom door.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But behave.”
I strip down to my boxers, I can’t sleep in anything more, and climb into the other side of the bed.
A strange twinge of weirdness hits me as I settle against the mattress.
I’m really in bed next to Rowan. That thought barely has time to settle before Rowan flings half his body over mine, tangling our legs together without hesitation.
I freeze, brain short-circuiting at the sudden press of warm skin against skin.
Rowan hums, content and low, nuzzling closer. “Night, baby.”
I stare up at the ceiling, heart pounding from that word again. “Yeah… night.”
That’s all I can manage. There’s so much more I want to say, so many questions I want to ask. It’s unusual for me, I usually observe and stay quiet, but right now I’d give anything to know what’s going on inside his head, even if he’s drunk.
I manage to pull my arm free from where it’s trapped against my side and under his chest, lifting it above my head. My pulse is racing stupidly fast. This feels more intimate than when I had my mouth on his cock.
Rowan mumbles something unintelligible and reaches up, grabbing my arm and tugging it back down so it rests across his shoulders.
“Don’t run away,” he whispers.
I close my eyes, the weight of his body warm and heavy against mine, and silently pray that he doesn’t freak out tomorrow morning.