Chapter 5
Rowan
Present Day
A beat passed while I waited for Keaton to respond to my question about him still playing video games after all these years, but he didn’t. So, I gave Mason a small nod and headed to my room.
The room was pretty basic. A beat-up dresser and a narrow desk were shoved up against opposite walls, and under the window sat a cheap queen mattress on a simple frame.
I still made the bed every day, and kept everything tidy and in its place—habits learned in the Air Force.
While serving, I hadn’t needed much, since I’d lived in furnished dorms and never bought more than the essentials.
I still didn’t need a lot, so the space would work until I found a job and got my own place.
While I wanted to become a pro fighter, I knew it would take time.
I’d boxed in the Air Force, wrestled in high school, and had been practicing Brazilian jiu-jitsu since I was seven.
Before Titan Elite, I hadn’t trained in mixed martial arts like the pros did, but I wanted a sport that let me combine everything I already knew and see what I could really do with it.
That’s why I hadn’t re-enlisted like my dad wanted.
I did enough to show him I made an effort, then got out.
I shut the door and dropped my keys into the ceramic bowl on the desk, then set my wallet beside it, the way I always did, because if my stuff stayed in its place, my brain didn’t have to waste time looking for it when I needed it.
From the living room, Mason’s voice carried down the hall. He laughed, then groaned as if whatever was happening in the game they were playing personally offended him.
I didn’t hear Keaton.
That should’ve been a relief, yet it wasn’t.
I sat on the edge of the mattress and stared at the wall long enough to feel the tension in my shoulders, then forced it down.
I wasn’t here to spiral. And I sure as hell wasn’t here to relive that night every waking second.
I was here to train, rebuild, and prove I could still do something with my life, even after I’d walked away from a stable career.
The uniform was gone, so the discipline had to come from me.
A few moments later, a knock rapped on my door. I opened it to see Mason holding a pizza box in one hand and a beer in the other.
“You always dip out that fast?”
“I didn’t dip out. I went to my room.”
His mouth curved. “That’s dipping.”
“What do you want?”
“I brought you food.” He nudged the pizza box higher. “I’m sharing because I’m generous and because there’s too much. I don’t want to eat it all and wake up with regret.”
“I’m not hungry,” I lied. I planned to go to the kitchen and grab something to eat while Keaton was in his room.
Mason’s eyes narrowed as he looked me up and down. “Did you train today?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re living in a house full of fighters,” he added, shifting the box higher. “We know you need calories, whether you feel hungry or not.”
“Pizza and beer?” I challenged.
“Cheat day.” He beamed.
I met his stare head-on. “Fine. One slice.”
“See, we’re already bonding.”
“We’re not bonding,” I corrected, grabbing a slice from the box.
His gaze slid past me into my room, then back at me. “You live nice and tidy.”
“I live orderly.”
He nodded. “Same thing.”
I took a small step back, trying to retreat but not be a dick since he was sharing his pizza with me. However, he took that as an invitation and stepped in, setting the pizza box on the corner of my desk.
“Grab another one,” he insisted. “You’re going to pretend you’re not hungry, and then you’ll be in the kitchen at two in the morning, eating peanut butter straight out of the jar.”
“I’m not going to do that.” I rolled my eyes.
He pointed at me with his slice. “That’s exactly what someone who’s going to do that would say.”
I chewed slowly. It wouldn’t be two in the morning, but it would be later when I knew the coast was clear.
The previous night when Keaton had been at work, I hadn’t felt like I was walking on eggshells, but since he was home playing video games tonight, I had to assume he had the night off, which made things awkward.
Mason rested his hip against the desk, then glanced at the bowl beside the pizza box. “Keys in a bowl. Wallet next to it. Bed made. You always been this way?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s intense.”
“It’s efficient.”
“It’s intense and efficient.” He took another bite, then angled his head toward the door. “So, how long before you and Keaton stab each other?”
“We’re not going to stab each other.”
“Okay, punch each other.”
“We’re not going to do that either.”
He arched a brow. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
He scoffed. “Because his face looked like he wanted to rearrange yours.”
“He’s pissed.” And rightfully so.
“Yeah.” Mason chewed, then swallowed. “You don’t look surprised.”
I didn’t respond to that.
He took my silence as encouragement to continue. “I’ve lived with Keaton long enough to know he doesn’t do that over nothing. He gets annoyed when the kitchen is a disaster. That”—he pointed to the living room—“was different.”
I leaned back against the dresser. “Do you always grill the new guy this much?”
He grinned. “Only when I want to know something.”
“Lucky me.”
“Very lucky. Okay.” He lifted his hands as if backing off. “I don’t need your life story. I just need you to survive living here without turning the hallway into a crime scene.”
“I’m not here to fight him.” I felt like we’d already gone over this, since he’d mentioned Dateline before, but clearly the guy wasn’t going to give up until he knew the story.
Despite his efforts, I wasn’t going to tell him, even though it was also my story to tell, because I didn’t know how much Mason and the other guys knew about Keaton.
Mason studied me for a moment. “All right. Then I’ll give you the best advice I’ve got.”
I waited. I’d known Keaton since we were ten, so I was certain I knew him better than anyone, but it had been four years since we’d seen each other, so maybe Mason knew the newer version of him better than I did.
“Don’t look at him like you want to punch his face in.”
I kept my expression blank. “I wasn’t looking at him like that.”
If anything, it was Keaton who wanted to hit me for what happened.
Mason’s grin returned. “Sure.” He shoved the last bite of his slice into his mouth, chewed, then spoke around it. “But listen, I’m not trying to make it worse. I’m trying to keep it from getting worse.”
“It’s already bad,” I replied.
Something in his expression softened a fraction. Not pity. Not sympathy. Just a quick flash of humanity beneath the jokes. “Yeah. I know. That’s why I’m here with pizza, acting like your emotional support golden retriever.”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
He saw it anyway. “There it is. You do have a sense of humor.”
“Don’t spread rumors.”
“I’m definitely spreading rumors.” He pushed off the desk and took the pizza box. “Come hang out in the living room. Play something. Watch something. Whatever. You live here now, so you might as well act like it.”
“I’m fine.”
He gave me a look. “All right. I’ll stop pushing, but you should eat some more.”
I stared at him for a second, then took another slice because he clearly wasn’t going to let it go.
His grin turned smug. “Knew it.”
“Take your victory and go.”
He backed toward the door, pizza and beer in hand. “This is the cleanest depression cave I’ve ever seen.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Okay,” he replied, drawing out the word. “Clean coping chamber.”
I glowered at him until he got the hint.
He lifted the beer in a little salute. “Goodnight, Fly Boy.”
After finishing the slice, I discarded my T-shirt, and grabbed my shave kit out of the closet because I needed a shower.
And just my luck, the bathroom was a Jack-and-Jill, wedged between my room and Keaton’s.
Devon had mentioned it when he first offered me the room, but at the time, it hadn’t meant much.
Now it felt like the worst possible setup.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The bathroom was narrow, with two sinks, a mirror that took up the entire wall, and a counter split by nothing but an invisible line I could feel the second I looked down.
I set my bag on my side, making sure I didn’t bump anything that wasn’t mine. I wasn’t trying to start another war.
As soon as I turned on the faucet, the other door opened.
My shoulders tensed as I peered at him.
Keaton stepped in barefoot, his sweatpants low on his hips, his hair tied back.
When he stopped, his attention flicked from my hands to my face, then down to my chest, to the inkwork spread across it, where there was a large anatomical heart pierced with crossed swords he’d never seen before.
His stare dropped, not to my hands or the sink, but lower.
For a beat, his focus held there before he dragged it back up and pretended he hadn’t been checking me out.
I grabbed the toothpaste from my bag. “Can I help you?”
“I need something.”
“All right,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral.
His attention shifted to the door behind him, then back to me. “You should lock this door when you’re in here.”
“So you don’t accidentally walk in on me while I’m naked?” I asked.
His stare sharpened. “Exactly.”
“You could also knock.”
“Or you can just lock the fuckin’ door.”
“The lock goes both ways.” I’d assumed he had a lock on his side of the door so he could have privacy in his bedroom like I had on my side.
“I lock that shit every time.”
We held stares in the mirror too long for two guys who were supposed to hate each other. Then his heated gaze lowered to my mouth, before snapping back up.
I braced my hands against the counter. “You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me.”
“Tell me to look away then.”
I should’ve told him to, and I should’ve meant it, but what we once were hit me square in the chest. “No. If you’re going to look, own it.”
He watched me in the mirror, then glanced at my bare chest again. His gaze lingered a second too long before he forced his eyes back up. “Remember to lock the door next time.”
“Or what?”
His focus moved to my mouth like he remembered kissing me. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part.
“Or I’m worried you’ll say something stupid, and I’ll do something even worse,” he finally said.
My stomach dipped, but it wasn’t from fear. It was that other thing, the one I’d told myself I’d suppressed. I gave him a slow grin. “So it’s my fault you can’t control yourself?”
He let out a short humorless laugh. “You always did know how to make me the problem.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” he replied, still glaring at me.
I adjusted my stance, needing movement, needing something to break the tension, and I leaned toward the center drawer to put some of my stuff away.
Keaton reached at the same time, and our fingers hit the handle together.
In the mirror, I caught the split second when his gaze lifted to mine, when the anger in his face slipped and then dropped back to my mouth before he pulled it up again.
Maybe he was remembering too.
I released the drawer first. “Go ahead.”
He pulled it open. “I don’t need your permission.”
My nostrils flared.
He snatched a bottle of black nail polish out and shut the drawer. “This is my drawer, by the way. The one below it is empty.”
“Fine.” I took a step and accidentally landed on his toes.
He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Watch where you step.”
“Watch where you stand.” My words felt like a dare, like the only way we’d stop circling each other was if we settled it in the ring. Get it out of our system so we could stop acting like teenagers. Hell, we weren’t even like this when we were kids.
After a few beats, he said, “I’m done.”
“Good.”
He turned, disappeared into his room, and slammed the door behind him.
I gaped at the closed door for a second. The bathroom fell quiet again, but my head didn’t, and the worst part was that it wasn’t just anger burning in my chest.
It was awareness of his proximity to me.
It was the memories.
It was the way his focus kept catching on my mouth like he didn’t want it to, and the way he told me to lock the door next time, as if he needed me to keep him from walking in and forgetting he was supposed to hate me.
If he needed a locked door to keep himself from touching me, then whatever had been between us wasn’t as dead as he wanted it to be.
And neither were my feelings for him.