Chapter 25
SURPRISES, SURPRISES
ROWAN
Do you believe some people are meant to meet?
ChaosInPurple: I do.
Though not in the way movies have us believe. I don’t believe in the need for fireworks or perfectly timed confessions.
I think the magic of fate works more patiently than that. Certain paths cross at exactly the moment they were meant to, even when it doesn’t feel significant at first.
Sometimes a person walks into your life and there’s a recognition that has nothing to do with logic. It’s as if part of you already knows them, has always known them, and is only now being given permission to say so.
That feeling of belonging isn’t loud. It gently settles into the space it was always meant to fill.
And later, much later, you look back at all of it. The timing, the crossed paths, the moments that seemed so small and ordinary when they were happening. And you understand that it never could have unfolded any other way. That every single piece of it was always leading exactly here.
Violet is quiet as we walk back from my parents’ house to mine, so quiet that I can hear the brittle crunch of dried snow under her feet.
“I am really sorry,” she says at last. “I don’t know what happened. But when I heard about Echo and then saw him something inside me just snapped. Everything I’ve been trying not to think about came rushing back. What I lost in the accident. How much it changed me.”
Her voice trembles at the end, and without thinking I reach for her. My fingers circle her wrist the way they have begun to do instinctively, my thumb pressing lightly against the place where her pulse flutters beneath her skin. It’s racing again.
She doesn’t look surprised by my touch. If anything, there’s a flicker of embarrassment in her expression, as if she feels she’s exposed too much.
Why should she feel embarrassed for grieving her own life?
I hate that I can’t simply say that out loud.
Still holding her hand, I pull my phone from my pocket.
Rowan: Violet, you never have to apologize for what you feel. Not to me. Not to my parents. Not to anyone. I promise you that no one thought anything less of you today. If anything, they are in awe of you and the strength you’ve shown through everything you’ve endured.
I show her the screen.
A faint smile touches her lips. “You know, I kind of believe that. You have amazing parents.” Her smile lingers for a moment, then slowly fades.
“The way they didn’t just open their home to Echo but opened their hearts too…
it says so much about them. I can’t even imagine what his life would have been like if your parents hadn’t stepped in. ”
Her throat closes around the last words, and I see it then, clearly.
This isn’t just about Echo. She sees herself in him, just like I do.
We finish the walk home in a quiet threaded with thoughts neither of us can easily untangle. Even after we step inside the warmth of my house, that silence lingers between us, stretching through the rest of the day.
On other days, we fall into an easy rhythm in the solarium, settling at opposite ends of the couch with our books open, our knees occasionally brushing as we shift, exchanging small smiles that carry entire conversations without either of us reaching for our phones. But today is nothing like that.
Today, Violet doesn’t step into the solarium at all.
She grabs the grayest blanket, the one that almost blends into the winter sky, and wraps it around herself, then she walks out to the porch and lowers herself onto the couch.
She pulls her knees up slightly, cocooning herself in fabric and silence.
From inside, I watch her.
Her gaze never leaves my parents’ house. She stares at it as though she’s left something behind there.
When I ask her about lunch, she only shakes her head gently and says she’s still full from breakfast.
I have not felt this helpless since the day of her accident while I was waiting in the hospital waiting room for someone to tell me she was okay.
The hours stretch quietly, and she remains outside.
When evening bleeds into night and the air sharpens with cold, I can’t ignore it any longer.
I walk toward the porch, stopping at the threshold as I watch her from a distance.
The blanket has slipped slightly from her shoulder, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
Her attention is still fixed on that greenhouse, where Echo is learning to exist again.
I pull out my phone and type.
Rowan: Violet, it’s time to come inside.
Her phone vibrates on the small table beside her. The screen glows softly in the dark, but she doesn’t look at it. She doesn’t move.
What do I do now?
This time, I step fully onto the porch, my feet making a soft, patterned sound against the wooden boards, hoping the noise will reach her… but still nothing. Only when I stop directly in front of her does she finally glance up.
But that fucking look. It hits me like a punch to the ribs.
Her eyes widen just slightly, as if she needs a second to place me. It’s the same expression she wore in the hospital. The same distant flicker.
Fuck.
I’m immediately surrounded by fear that she’s slipping somewhere I can’t follow. My heart pounds as I pull my phone from my pocket and type, my fingers not as steady as I want them to be.
Rowan: Violet, come inside. Let’s have some dinner.
I place her phone on her lap, and my gaze drifts to her lips, where the cold has already stolen their softness. In just half a day of sitting out here, her plump pink mouth has dried, the edges faintly chapped by winter air.
“I’m still full,” she says without looking up at me.
My fist tightens at my side.
Not in anger, but in fear and worry.
Rowan: You can’t sit here all night. At some point you have to come inside. I’ve lit the fireplace in the solarium. It’s warm there. You can read. You don’t have to talk.
She looks down and reads the message slowly.
And for a terrifying second, a thought grips me hard. What if today has already been too exhausting and she decides that she doesn’t want to reach for her phone? What if she closes herself off in a place I cannot reach?
She lifts her eyes again toward my parents’ house, the windows glowing faintly in the dark.
“I really don’t want to go inside,” she whispers.
Her small voice does something violent to my insides. I swallow and type again.
Rowan: Okay. Then let’s do this. We’ll go inside for dinner, and you’ll put on warmer clothes. After that, I’ll bring out the portable heater. I’m not letting you sit here all night in the cold.
Thank fuck. She finally looks up and her eyes widen, not with confusion, not with distance, but with something else. Tears gather slowly along her lower lashes.
“Will you really do that? For me?”
If only she knew how far I’m willing to go for her.
I would build a wall against the wind if that’s what she needed. I would light every fire in this house. If she is not ready to step inside yet, then I will bring the warmth out to her.
I place my hand forward, palm open. All my life I’ve avoided closeness. People chalk it up to my arrogant behavior. The reality is, I’m not brave enough to risk the possibility of being pulled away from. But for Violet, I am willing to face any rejection. Her pain is bigger than my fears.
She takes my hand—not tentatively. No, she laces her fingers through mine and rises to her feet, and before I can guide her toward the door, she steps into me and loops her arms around my neck.
“Thank you so much.” She hugs me as though I’m something irreplaceable. “Thank you for everything. Thank you for not leaving me. Thank you for caring about me more than I even know how to care about myself.”
I freeze. I know with absolute clarity that this moment will stay with me for the rest of my life.
When she doesn’t pull away, when there’s no urgency in her body to loosen her grip, I let my arms circle her waist, slowly at first and then fully, pressing her closer to me. If anything, she holds me tighter, as though she wants to fold into me completely.
How long have I waited to be held like this?
To feel like I’m not a complication or a quiet burden, but a man someone needs.
The thought hits me hard, that to her, in this moment, I am inevitable. I swear to myself that I will spend every day proving to her that she is the same for me, if not more.
I don’t rush the embrace. I don’t look for an exit.
If there is any version of heaven for me, it exists right here on this porch, wrapped in winter air and her arms around my neck.
I don’t know how much time passes before her hold loosens slightly, her fingers sliding from the back of my sweater. Reluctantly, I let my hands fall from her waist.
Her cheeks are flushed, a deep pink blooming beneath her skin, and I love the sight of it more than I should.
“I am—”
Before the word can finish forming, I lift my hand and press my fingers gently against her lips.
No. No fucking way. I do not want to stop looking at her, so I don’t even take my phone out… just yet.
I shake my head, my eyes locked on hers.
I am not going to hear sorry—not for this, not for her needing me.
Understanding dawns in her eyes, and she nods. Only then do I lower my hand, forcing myself to step back just enough to pull my phone from my pocket.
I open the FYS app.
SilenceInMidnight: I don’t want to hear sorry. If anything, I want a repeat of this. Every day. Every hour. Every second.
A small smile curves her mouth, and for a moment I think the day has shifted back into warmth. But then a flicker of light from my parents’ house catches her attention. Her focus drifts again, the thread that tethered her to that place tightening once more.
I take her hand.
Rowan: We will be back, I promise. But first you’re going to eat. You already skipped lunch. Don’t forget, you’re still recovering.
I nod toward her sling.
This time, she doesn’t argue. She squeezes my hand and lets me lead her inside.