Chapter 18
MORNING MIRACLES
ROWAN
Do you believe love is a lighthouse, a wildfire, or a compass?
ChaosInPurple: Hmm, that’s a tough question to answer. But I don’t think love is something that fixes everything, nor something that removes the chaos of life. It’s something that reminds you where safety is.
I think love is like a lighthouse in some way.
It doesn’t stop the storms. It doesn’t quiet the waves or make the night less dark. It just stubbornly stands there, sending out light again and again so ships know where the shore is.
It’s a place your heart can look toward and think, There. That’s where I belong.
I hear her before I see her, the soft intake of her breath, the light shuffle of her feet, just as the espresso machine releases the final drop of coffee into my cup.
I turn around to find Violet standing right at the threshold.
Her gaze scans my bare chest as if taking in every inch of my skin before landing on my face.
When our eyes meet, last night crashes over me in a sudden, merciless montage—the way her body reacted under my hands, the closeness that both terrified me and felt like the very thing I’d been waiting for when I signed up for FYS.
Her chest rises and falls, slow and visible. A faint flush blooms across her cheeks, as if she’s imagining the same moment. My mind fills in details I couldn’t see last night but felt everywhere. How she must have looked when we were close, while I helped her with my clothes.
My clothes. The ones she’s still wearing.
Violet’s long, straight black hair is sleep mussed, untamed, and the purple highlights catch the white kitchen light as they spill over my shirt. The white fabric hangs loose on her, the buttons misaligned. My gym shorts, absurdly oversized, sit low on her hips, bunching beneath her knees.
She looks… at ease… comfortable and unbothered.
There’s a woman in my house, wearing my clothes, standing barefoot in the quiet morning, and she doesn’t look upset or guarded. She doesn’t look like she’s counting the seconds until she can leave.
When Violet walked here yesterday, I hadn’t expected this.
I’d imagined there would be some awkward pauses while we maintained careful distance and shared the kind of politeness that keeps people safe. I thought we’d circle each other slowly before daring to step closer.
Instead, last night stretched and folded in on itself, hours feeling like days, comfort arriving too quickly, and yet somehow everything felt exactly right. We’d skipped the pretense, as if we already knew how to exist in the same space.
Violet lifts her phone and gives a small wave, just once. It’s enough to stop my heart, then send it racing for two entirely different reasons.
She remembered that we need the phone to talk. And she wants to talk to me.
My fingers move before I can overthink it.
Rowan: Good morning.
Her phone vibrates in her hand.
“Good morning,” she says aloud, her voice warm and bright, paired with a smile that could make any morning feel really good.
Rowan: Did you sleep well?
“Better than I thought I would.” She steps fully into the kitchen.
Rowan: Good. Coffee?
“Yes, please.”
Rowan: With almond milk and coconut sugar?
She nods, and I slide a second mug beneath the machine.
“Isn’t it unbelievable,” she says softly, “that I remember things like how I take my coffee, but somehow the things that really matter I don’t remember them at all?”
I turn toward her, words already lining up in my head, things I could say to soften the ache in her voice. But before I can type a single one, she gives me a tiny, brave smile, as if she needs to reassure me instead.
“But I guess it’s better that I remember something. That’s what I should focus on, right?” Once again, she doesn’t wait for my reply. “Imagine if I had to relearn how to read and write, spell words, tell time.” Her eyes widen. “That would be like going back to childhood in an adult body.”
She looks at me then, eyes bright and expressive, as if she’s a character from a picture book, sketched in too much color and feeling.
Violet might not remember who she is, but pieces of her keep slipping through when she isn’t afraid or guarded.
I see her innate curiosity, her honesty and humor, and it gives me hope that one day, when she’s ready, everything will find its way back to her.
The coffee machine clicks off, and I set the mug in front of her, then reach for the carton of almond milk that arrived this morning with a box full of things I ordered and can’t wait to show her.
I unscrew the cap, pour in the milk, add the coconut sugar, and stir it just enough. The way she likes it.
I slide the mug toward her, watch her hands wrap around it, and it hits me—I like this. Doing little things for her. Making her smile.
Rowan: I want to show you something. But would you wait here for a second? I’ll just put on a shirt.
As if the words make her suddenly aware of me, her gaze dips, skimming my chest. There’s a flicker of surprise, a quiet appreciation that softens her expression.
I fucking love it.
Her eyes look glossy now, unfocused, and through the thin fabric of my shirt hanging loose on her frame, I catch the smallest, most dangerous proof of her reaction.
I refuse to blame the outline of her puckered nipples on the morning chill.
No. I want to believe this—all of this—is because of me.
That I’m the reason her breath turns shallow, coming in little puffs. That I’m the reason her fingers tremble slightly around her phone. That whatever is happening inside her body mirrors the riot happening inside mine.
She doesn’t answer right away, and her gaze doesn’t lift back to my face. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from grinning and to get her attention, I send her another text.
Rowan: Violet.
Her phone vibrates, and she startles, coughing softly. “Crap,” she mutters, eyes squeezing shut for a second.
That single second does unspeakable things to my ego.
She nods, once, twice—more than necessary.
“Yeah… yeah.” Her eyes finally lift to mine, and the color flooding her cheeks sends a sharp thrill through my bloodstream, straight to places I’m very deliberately trying to not think about too closely.
“Yeah,” she says again. “I actually… I need to freshen up too. I read your letter and I needed to see you right away.”
That’s it. That’s all it takes.
My heart turns into a blender, my thoughts scattering everywhere, and she has no idea how completely she’s just undone me with her words.
My hand shakes as I type.
Rowan: Sure. I’ll meet you in the hallway.
I’m about to turn away when she calls my name. “Rowan, I’m not scared.”
It takes me a second to realize she’s referring to my letter.
She wants another one.
I nod in reply, not even trying to press any key on my phone. I fear I’ll fumble in excitement and make a fool of myself around her.
We part, each retreating to our rooms, but the distance feels louder than the house ever has.
I pull on a cotton T-shirt, run a hand through my hair, and stop briefly in the bathroom. I add a touch of my sage and cedar cologne. It’s not heavy on the nose, but has a lingering, calming smell, like I’m standing in the middle of a quiet forest. I hope it leaves the same feelings with Violet.
When I catch my reflection, I barely recognize myself. I’m smiling, not just with my mouth, but with my eyes. They are unguarded and happier than I can ever remember being.
Fuck.
All my life, I’ve waited to feel this—the anticipation, the thrill, the ache of wanting to spend time with someone who both steadies me and completely wrecks me. And I don’t want to be away from her a second longer than necessary.
I grab the tray holding two coffee mugs from the kitchen and stop outside her door just as it opens. She’s pulled a small cardigan over my shirt. I wish she hadn’t done that, since it hides her reaction to me, the things she doesn’t say out loud.
“Hi,” she says with a smile.
Rowan: Let’s go.
Her brows knit together in confusion when I nod deeper into the house. “I thought we were going to see the snow.” She gestures toward the porch.
I glance at it only briefly before meeting her eyes again.
Rowan: We are. This is better.
I lead her toward the far end of the house, past the gym she hasn’t seen yet, past my office with its closed door, past my bedroom—too intimate to linger on—and stop in front of the solarium.
The frosted glass door hides what’s beyond it. I turn to her.
Rowan: Ready?
“For what?” she asks, eyes wide, uncertain, curious all at once. She looks like a startled little deer, gaze flicking from my face to the glass, trying and failing to see through it.
I don’t answer right away and instead give her a smile.
Rowan: Magic.
Her eyes light up, sending my heart into a sudden, reckless sprint. I didn’t realize—didn’t know—how much I would like seeing her like this, excitement and happiness bubbling right to the surface without fear or hesitation.
She nods quickly and I reach for the handle. I open the door wide and step aside, gesturing her forward.
I want her to go first.
I want her to be the first one to take it in—the snow, the warmth, the quiet beauty I’ve kept to myself for so long.
She takes one step inside. Then another. And then she stops.
For a moment, Violet doesn’t speak. She just stands there, framed by falling snow and soft firelight. Around her the glass walls of the solarium curve overhead into a dome. The sky is pale and alive with drifting snowflakes, the world outside hushed and white.
The fireplace crackles gently to her left, flames casting a warm amber glow over the red couch positioned just close enough to invite sinking into it. A white carpet stretches beneath her feet.
Violet turns slowly, taking everything in.
Plants spill across one half of the space, lush and green, alive and thriving despite the winter pressing in from every angle.
Tall leaves, trailing vines, quiet bursts of life reaching toward the light.
The other half is books. Shelves upon shelves, dark wood softened by time, filled to the edges.
My library. My refuge.
My heart.
She spins back toward the glass ceiling just as a heavier flurry of snow begins to fall.
She drifts toward the books first, fingertips brushing the spines reverently, like she understands these aren’t just objects but pieces of me. Then she turns toward the plants, inhaling deeply, eyes fluttering closed, grounding herself in the scent of earth and leaves.
“Wow,” she whispers. “This is just… wow.”
Her excitement blooms across her face. Her eyes shine, wide and luminous, darting from the fire to the books to the plants and back to the snow above us, like she doesn’t know where to look first.
I set the tray down on the coffee table next to the couch, exactly where I want her to be with me. She still hasn’t seen the real magic of this place, not on a morning like this.
My hands tremble when I reach for her.
I gently touch her shoulder, exactly where she showed me last evening on the porch, waiting for her to pull away if she needs to.
But she turns around, neither startled nor afraid.
Her eyes don’t widen; panic doesn’t flash across her face.
Her smile stays, soft and open, like she trusts the moment and me enough to let it unfold.
I’m not prepared for what happens next.
She squeals—actually squeals—bouncing once on her toes before grabbing my forearms, fingers curling into my skin.
“Oh my god, Rowan. I am so jealous that you get to see this view every day.”
Something inside me caves in.
This is Violet. The version I’ve seen across crowded rooms and loud conversations. The one I kept my distance from. The one I pretended not to notice.
And this is the Violet I want back, not only for me but for herself.
Her gaze drops to where her fingers are still gripping my arms, dimpling my skin. Her smile starts to waver, but before it can fall, before she can apologize or retreat into doubt, I curl my fingers around her waist.
I don’t want her to second-guess this, to second-guess us.
I don’t want her to wonder if it’s too much or too sudden or too anything. I want her to know clearly and undeniably that I want all of her.
I want every version and every feeling my soulmate is willing to offer.
I guide her toward the red couch and settle beside her. Then I lean into the cushions and tilt my head upward, lifting a finger and pointing toward the glass dome overhead.
She follows the gesture, and when she looks up, her smile blooms, awe softening her features as snow drifts down above us, thick and slow, as if it’s falling straight into the room.
“Wow,” she breathes. Then, quieter, “It’s really… wow.”
Outside, everything is white, hushed, and the world is paused. There’s nothing more grounding than this— snowfall and silence and warmth held safely inside glass.
I’m so freaking grateful that the universe gave me this chance, to share it with her, on our very first morning here.
Yes, since Purple came into my life, I do things like thank the universe.
I bring the tray closer and pass her a mug before taking my own.
She takes a sip and her eyes flutter closed.
“I didn’t know how my first morning here would look.
But I never imagined I could feel this relaxed.
” Her voice dips. “My heart is in peace, even when I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with my life or with my day.
” She exhales. “But right now, none of that matters. It’s just this moment and I want to stay here.
I just want to be.” She opens her eyes and looks at me, uncertainty flickering across her face. “I don’t know if that makes sense.”
But it does so fucking much.
I meet her gaze and type the words that have lived quietly inside me for a long time.
Rowan: I know exactly what you mean.