Chapter 16 #2
The soft cotton clings to a broad chest, stretching just enough to hint at the strength beneath it.
His shoulders are wide, solid like they’re built to carry weight—literal or otherwise.
The half sleeves skim over defined arms, muscle shifting subtly as he moves.
He doesn’t have to try to be imposing. He just is.
My gaze flickers absently to the way the fabric narrows at his waist. Heat creeps up my neck before I can stop it.
This version of Rowan, unguarded and casual, undoes me a little. And judging by the way he rubs the back of his neck, still smiling like he’s caught between nerves and hope, I have a sudden dizzying feeling that he feels it too.
I immediately know who he is right now.
He is Night. The confident and carefree man who lives inside Rowan’s aloof personality, which I’m sure only a handful of people know.
My phone vibrates in my hand.
Rowan: Were you asleep?
I shake my head. “No.”
Another vibration.
Rowan: You were reading our chats.
It isn’t really a question, more like an understanding. Like he already knows the answer and just wants to see if I’ll admit it.
I nod, then lift my gaze to him, to find him still smiling. “Why didn’t you fall asleep?”
Rowan: I was working on your request.
“My… request?” I tilt my head.
Instead of answering right away, he reaches forward and produces an envelope. Simple. Cream colored. My name’s written on the front in careful handwriting, and his name is embossed in gold at the bottom.
Rowan Teager, CEO of Elixir Communications.
Rowan: You said you wondered what I was thinking when I typed those one-word answers. This is exactly what I was thinking when I typed them.
Oh.
Oh my God.
I look up at him, my heart doing reckless things. Butterflies don’t just flutter—they riot in my stomach, wild and warm and uncontrollable, like they’ve just discovered the most beautiful garden and decided to move in.
But Rowan isn’t watching my reaction. He’s still typing.
Rowan: Since I want to be fair to every question so that you get the most honest version of me, I’m giving each one the time it deserves. So, I’ll address one question at a time.
My mouth falls open.
“Seriously?” I gasp, the word barely making it past the rush of excitement flooding my body.
This is… absurdly romantic.
While Rowan is quiet, reserved, painfully straightforward, Night, I realize, is dangerously cute.
I clutch the envelope with both hands. I’m grinning so hard my cheeks hurt. He starts to step back, already preparing to leave. We’re about to trade another soft goodnight and retreat to separate rooms with our thoughts, when he stops.
His gaze drifts over me, and a faint frown creases his brow.
Rowan: You didn’t change?
I bite my lip as reality presses in, thinning our fragile bubble. Night and Purple are slowly dissolving, replaced by Rowan and Violet, pulled there by practicality.
“The clothes I have with me… they’re not easy to put on.” I offer him only half the truth.
I’d tried to change earlier, when Rowan stepped out to see his dad.
I soon realized it wasn’t just that the clothes I had were impractical, but the jeans the nurse helped me into at the hospital were a battle I couldn’t win on my own.
The button, the zipper, and the stiff denim refused to cooperate.
After struggling longer than my pride would like to admit, I gave up and decided I’d just sleep in them.
Rowan’s gaze flicks from my face to my sling. He raises a finger, asking for a second, and disappears into his room. He’s back moments later, holding a white button-down shirt and a pair of black gym shorts. He hands them to me, then types.
Rowan: I’m really sorry. I should have thought about this more. But maybe these will be easier.
“Thanks,” I whisper, shifting my weight. After everything tonight, I don’t want to hide things from him.
We’re adults. Nervous ones, maybe, but still adults.
“It’s not only that. I… I don’t know if I can get out of my jeans.”
The crop shirt I’m wearing under the cardigan, loose and with front buttons, is manageable.
Rowan’s lips press into a thin line. It’s the look he gets when he runs into something he can’t immediately control.
He thinks for a moment, brows drawn, thumbs moving over his screen.
Rowan: Are you comfortable sleeping like this?
I shrug. The truth is, it’s not comfortable at all. But what choice do I really have?
Rowan: Can I help?
My pulse stutters. Help me undress?
“Um… I don’t know how,” I admit, even though we both do.
Rowan chews on his bottom lip, that nervous habit making him look painfully human.
The truth is, we’re unsure how he can help me undress without shattering the careful trust we’ve built tonight. If the price of keeping that trust intact is discomfort, I’d pay it gladly.
My phone vibrates again.
Rowan: I have an idea. You can say yes or no. Either is perfectly okay with me.
I nod. “Okay.”
His plan unfolds on my screen—methodical, thoughtful, and gentle.
Rowan: We will turn the lights off. When you’re ready, you place my hand where it needs to be.
I’ll unbutton and unzip your jeans, and then I’ll turn around.
If you can manage on your own, that’s perfect.
If you can’t, I’ll help you slide them down.
I’ll keep my eyes closed the entire time.
If it makes you more comfortable, I can wear a blindfold too.
His words once again read like the tender middle of a romance novel, charged with trust, and with butterflies fluttering awake in my stomach.
I want to follow his plan, for the practical reasons and for the butterfly-inducing ones too.
“Okay. There’s no need for a blindfold.”
Rowan: You sure?
I nod again.
He lifts a finger and steps into the hallway, dimming the lights. When he returns, he flicks the switch, and darkness folds around us. I can only see his silhouette now.
We aren’t standing close, but I can hear his breathing, and I’m suddenly aware of my own—uneven, a little fast but completely in sync with his heartbeat.
Suddenly a glow blooms in the dark, and his face is illuminated by the light of his phone screen. I watch his serious and focused expression and lift my own phone, waiting for whatever he’s typing.
Rowan: I’m ready whenever you are.
He slips his phone into the back pocket of his track pants, and I realize we won’t be able to talk anymore. I follow his lead, placing my own phone on the bed, sealing ourselves into silence together.
I lift my hand, searching for his, to find him waiting, palms open. His hand nearly swallows mine. My palm shifts against his, feeling the warmth, lingering longer than necessary. But Rowan shows no rush; he just stays.
I guide his hand closer. The moment his palm settles at the waistband of my jeans, an unmistakable shiver ripples through me, like something electric has jumped between us. I feel the sensation moving from his fingers into my skin, branding me.
I release his hand and Rowan unbuttons my jeans with one smooth, careful motion. It’s strangely hypnotic and sensual when he works on my clothes, single-handedly and with quiet precision.
He pauses, and even without seeing his face, I know he’s checking in, asking me if it’s okay to proceed.
Before he can reach for his phone, I whisper, “It’s okay. I’m fine.”
A deep exhale leaves him, and I feel it against my skin, realizing how close we are. His fingers finally find the zipper. This time, my whole body jerks before I can stop it, and Rowan pulls his hand back instantly.
“S… sorry,” I stammer, embarrassed by my own nerves. “I’m… just surprised.”
I reach for him again. When I guide him back, the button already undone, his pinky and ring finger brush against the bare skin of my waist, and his remaining fingers graze against the cotton of my panties.
The contact is accidental, but it sends my pulse racing.
His hand freezes. I swallow, the sound loud in the quiet.
Then, without lingering, Rowan pulls the zipper of my jeans down.
As per the plan, he’s supposed to turn away now. But I’m sure he, too, has realized by now that there’s no way I can get undressed alone, not with only one fully functional arm and not with how tight the denim is.
Yet he waits for my explicit permission, being the gentleman he is.
“It’s… too tight,” I murmur. “Can you…”
My partial request is enough for him.
He kneels down before me, and I have to close my eyes. My brain, which has been slower than a turtle in remembering things the last three days, has suddenly gone into overdrive with imagination.
My mind betrays me with images I don’t have the bandwidth to process. The darkness, his position, the vulnerability of it all, is too much.
Rowan gently unties my shoes. I grip his shoulder for support, and my heart trips over itself at the feel of the firm muscle beneath thin cotton. He removes my shoes and socks without a sound or a text, then repeats the motion on the other foot.
His hands return to my waist, fingers resting in the belt loops. He pauses there, as if giving me an opportunity to change my mind. But when I don’t say anything, he eases my jeans down, helping me step free.
The second I’m clear of them, he straightens immediately. Rowan turns away and a second later presses the gym shorts into my hand.
“I think I can do this,” I say softly.
I know that without his help, it’ll take longer. I’ll probably fumble a few times, but this is something I need to do myself.
Maybe I can ask him to help me shop so I can get clothes that are more practical.
His phone lights up briefly, the glow illuminating his profile once again.
Rowan: Then I’ll step outside so you can change comfortably. On my way, I’ll turn the light on and close the door without looking. Is that okay?
The pressure in my chest eases. Even with my lost memories, I know that men like Rowan don’t come along often. He’s considerate, protective without smothering, and thinks ten steps ahead.
“That sounds perfect,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
And he does exactly what he said. He turns on the light and leaves without turning around.
When the door closes, I notice the jeans folded neatly over the reading chair, as if he couldn’t leave without making sure even that small detail was taken care of.
I sit on the edge of the bed and, at a speed that would make a snail proud, slide my feet into the gym shorts. Inch by inch, I tug the elastic waistband up, but I don’t complain. If anything, I’m already certain elastic waistbands are about to become my lifeline in the coming days.
Taking off the cardigan and crop top takes even longer, though I’m oddly grateful for front buttons, for how much more forgiving they are as I undo them one at a time.
When I pull on Rowan’s white shirt, it smells like wildflower detergent, with a faint, woodsy note underneath, a scent I’ve started to associate with him.
Being wrapped up in his clothes feels like being wrapped up in him, in his care and his quiet kind of safety.
When I finally climb into bed, I fully intend to fall asleep. As much as I want to reread our messages on FYS, I don’t want to miss watching the snow with Rowan tomorrow. I’m just about to place my phone onto the nightstand when it vibrates, and a smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it.
Rowan: Did everything turn out okay? Were you able to change?
Violet: Yes. Thank you so much. Your clothes were a lifesaver. I think I’ll be rocking elastic-waist pants and button-down shirts for the next few weeks.
When I was at the hospital, I didn’t think I could feel this happy, this much like myself, in just one day.
Rowan: Glad it worked. :-)
Rowan: Good night, Violet.
Violet: Good night, Rowan.
He doesn’t call me Purple. I don’t call him Night. We’re not on the FYS app right now, and somehow we both understand the assignment perfectly.
I’ve lost count of how many good nights we’ve already exchanged this evening, but this one feels final in the best way. I settle into bed, already looking forward to tomorrow.