Chapter 12 You Can Touch Me, Baby
YOU CAN TOUCH ME, BABY
VIOLET
If you were a piece of the sky, would you choose to be the sun or the moon?
SilenceInMidnight: Moon. Light without noise.
After cutting off the ignition, Rowan places a box on my lap. I look up at him, and for a second, the world narrows to just the two of us inside the quiet car.
I pay close attention to how he types on his phone, the glow from the screen casting soft light over his face.
His jaw is strong and clean-cut, shadowed faintly with stubble.
His nose is sharp and straight, while his lips, fuller than one would expect, are pressed together in concentration.
Dark lashes cast shadows against his cheeks, and when his eyes flick up to check on me, that deep green pulls me in completely.
Taking this leap with him, choosing his quiet presence over friends who probably mean a lot more, felt brave inside the hospital, a decision made with borrowed courage.
But now, sitting in the passenger seat of his car, the nerves rush in full force.
This man is still, by every logical definition, a stranger.
And yet there’s a pull toward him I don’t know how to explain.
Rowan turns toward me before handing his phone over.
This is your new phone. I asked Archer to get it for you since your last one broke.
I read the words twice, my chest tightening at his thoughtful gesture.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
He only shrugs, small and understated, then takes his phone back. A few quick taps, and suddenly warm, golden fairy lights flicker to life, outlining the house.
“Wow,” I breathe.
When Rowan had described his place—quiet, close to nature, tucked into the woods—I’d imagined something modest and secluded. What I wasn’t prepared for was this… cabin feels like the wrong word.
The house is a perfect marriage of earth and elegance, wood and glass, comfort and quiet awe.
The back of it curves into a glass dome, and even from here I can imagine rain tracing slow paths down the panes, snow drifting softly outside while the world feels paused inside.
This is a place meant for watching storms and feeling safe through them.
The front looks like it’s been pulled straight from a fairy tale.
A wide wraparound porch is framed by solar lights nestled into the soil and strands of fairy lights hanging gently from the beams, glowing like constellations.
It doesn’t feel intimidating or grand. It feels… lived in, cared for, and loved.
“This is beautiful,” I say, turning to him.
For a fleeting second, something eases in his expression. His shoulders soften, his jaw unclenches, as if he’s been bracing himself for disappointment. His relief makes my heart ache a little.
In the last few days, I’ve started to realize something about Rowan that still doesn’t quite compute in my head.
He seems… insecure. I struggle to use the word for him.
Even in my head, it’s baffling. But maybe that’s exactly what makes him approachable to me.
Also, that he doesn’t look at me like someone who’s broken.
He looks at me the way I look at him—with curiosity, trying to understand who I am now through the choices I make, not mourning the version of me I can’t remember being.
Strangely, the unfamiliarity between us soothes me. There’s no pressure to perform a role I don’t remember, no expectations tied to old habits or inside jokes I can’t access.
We’re both meeting each other here, in this moment, without the weight of a shared past pressing down on us.
Am I nervous about moving in with him? Absolutely. The fear hums under my skin, sharp and alive. But this is the same man who sat outside my hospital room for three days straight, a quiet sentinel I didn’t even know I was leaning on.
He cares—about me, about my safety, about giving me space without ever leaving. That much is undeniable. And if there were truly any danger in this, if my well-being was at risk, I know my friends, especially Elodie, would have fought harder against it.
His hand brushes my elbow, and I flinch in my seat, my body reacting before my mind can catch up. When I turn to him, wide-eyed and startled, his eyes are just as wide, guilt flashing across his face so fast it almost hurts to witness. He immediately lifts his phone between us.
Crap. Heat rushes to my cheeks. I’d drifted off into my own head again, missing the most important thing—that Rowan communicates through his phone. He can’t call out or announce himself the way people usually do. If he wants my attention, this is how he will reach for it.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt.
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. His fingers curl around his phone, his grip firm and restrained. He shakes his head once, the motion clearly saying, No. Don’t. It’s not your fault.
Tension lingers, but I can sense that he doesn’t want to sit in it any more than I do. So I reach for his phone. The screen lights up beneath my fingers.
I’m sure you’re tired. Let’s get you settled in.
“That would be good,” I admit softly. “I didn’t think a short drive would be so exhausting.”
He nods slowly, the tension from before fading. Rowan gets out of the car and gestures with both hands for me to wait. I watch through the window as he steps out from the driver’s seat with quiet confidence and circles the car before opening my door. He waits for me to unbuckle my seat belt.
The pause stretches, and for the first time since leaving the hospital, reality settles in.
The next few days are going to be different.
In the hospital, nurses hovered close, helping me with every little thing.
But now the sling pins my right arm in place, and there’s so much I won’t be able to do on my own.
Simple, small, thoughtless movements, like unbuckling a seat belt, suddenly require help.
I look up at Rowan to find his gaze fixed on my sling. His eyes lift to mine cautiously, and I know after what happened earlier, he isn’t going to touch me again unless I ask.
“Can you—” I begin.
He nods, as if he’s been waiting for my permission. Rowan leans in slowly, keeping a respectful distance. When he releases the belt, the heel of his palm brushes my thigh through the denim.
It’s a brief, accidental, and electric touch.
My breath stutters, but not due to fear. No, the nerves in my stomach flutter like a butterfly caught in gentle hands.
Before fully straightening, Rowan reaches for the phone box he’d set on my lap earlier and tucks it under his arm.
He then steps back, holding my door open.
Once I’m steady on my feet, we walk side by side toward the boot of his car.
Inside is my bag that Daisy had brought to the hospital yesterday.
It holds three changes of clothes, a few pairs of undergarments, and my toiletries.
Willow promised she’d go to my house tomorrow morning to pack the rest.
Our steps slow as we follow the stony path cut neatly through perfectly manicured grass, both of us hesitating in a way that feels mirrored. Neither of us says anything, but the silence doesn’t feel awkward.
“Oh, wow.” I reach the top step.
The porch is warm and inviting. Potted plants curve around the couch from behind, giving the sitting area privacy from the surrounding nature. The coffee table bears marks of age and use. A large wind chime hangs, which moves with the faintest brush of air, releasing low, gentle music into the air.
It’s the kind of place that calms your heart instantly.
When I turn toward the view beyond, my heartbeat stumbles. Even in the fading evening light, the tall Cherrywood hills rise in the distance.
“You can relax here after I show you the guest room.”
His clear words reach me, and my lungs forget how to work.
Did he… just speak?
My eyes snap to Rowan, my heart thudding hard enough that I swear he must hear it. But then he lifts his phone, tilting it slightly. He types, and the same calm, even voice spills out again.
“I used text-to-speech software. It translates what I write into audio.”
Oh.
I nod, but my mouth is still dry. For one split second it felt like I had heard him.
“Why don’t you use it all the time? Wouldn’t that be easier?” The question slips out in curiosity and not accusation.
He shrugs. It’s a small movement, but as always, he says a lot without words. The shrug, the tilt of his head, the way his mouth tightens just a fraction.
Rowan uses his body the way other people use filler words, carefully and selectively, especially when he doesn’t like where a question might lead.
But I don’t look away, and after a moment, neither does he.
He types again. This time, when the phone speaks, the voice feels heavier.
“I don’t like the computer’s perfect voice.” He pauses, eyes flicking up to my face, as if he’s weighing whether to let me see what’s underneath. Then his gaze drops back to the screen, fingers moving again. “It makes me feel more inadequate than I already am.”
Inadequate?
No one would dare use that word to describe him. Inadequate doesn’t fit him at all.
But I don’t say that to him. I can tell that his relationship with his silence is old and deeply rooted, shaped by years and experiences I’m unaware of.
“Then why did you use the software now?” I ask instead.
He doesn’t hesitate this time. His thumbs move across the screen, and the phone speaks for him once again.
“I don’t want a repeat of what happened in the car. I don’t want you flinching or staying on guard, wondering if I’m about to touch you.”
My hands curl, not with fear, but with the quiet weight of the thought he’s putting into my comfort and not crossing lines I haven’t even drawn.
I step closer, then stop when there’s only a small, careful space between us.
Close enough that I can see the faint tension in his jaw, the way his breath changes when I move into it.
“I didn’t recoil. I was surprised, that’s all. And it wasn’t an unsafe kind of surprised.”
He watches me, searching my face like he’s trying to read past my words, making sure I mean every syllable.
I shake my head. “I don’t want you to use the software because of me.”
I don’t want him doing anything that makes him uncomfortable just because he thinks it’ll make things easier for me. I glance down at his phone when it speaks again.
“We’re sharing a space now. There will be moments when I need to get your attention and you’re not looking at me.”
The computer’s voice sounds hollow and artificial, nothing like the one that caused a shiver to run through me earlier when I thought, just for a second, that Rowan had spoken aloud.
Instead of answering with words, I reach for him. The moment my fingers close around his hand, his whole body goes still. His wide gaze drops to where our hands are joined, then snaps back to my face.
“I don’t mind you touching me,” I say quietly.
And to show him, I lift his hand gently and tap the top of my head, smiling as I do. His tension eases a fraction, like a knot loosening under careful fingers. Then I guide his hand lower and rest it against my shoulder, my grip warm against his wrist.
“This,” I tell him softly, “is all okay for me.”
He swallows as his throat works hard, and finally, he nods. When he pulls his hand away, he does it slowly, reluctantly, like letting go costs him something. And that’s exactly how I feel.
He types again, then turns the phone toward me.
If that’s what you prefer.