36. Rowan
ROWAN
The elevator opens directly into the penthouse.
There’s no hallway. No buffer. Just space—wide, uninterrupted, stretching outward until it meets glass. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city like a living map, all steel and light and motion far below. Up here, everything is quiet. Controlled. Still.
I step out slowly, my hands hovering at my sides like I don’t quite know what to do with them. My fingers twitch once before I still them.
The place is beautiful.
The living room is expansive but restrained.
Low charcoal couches with clean lines face a wide, empty wall.
There’s no television. There are no family photographs of happy memories.
A single piece of abstract art hangs there instead—sharp angles, muted colors, something fractured and deliberate.
It’s striking. Cold. It feels chosen specifically for the space.
The coffee table is glass and concrete, untouched. It’s not littered with books or ashtrays or beer bottles. There’s no evidence that this place has ever been lived in.
It’s expansive but it feels… unused. Like a space designed for someone who would never see this as a long term option.
I drift further in, my footsteps soft against the polished floor.
The kitchen runs along one side of the penthouse, open and seamless.
Stone counters with handle-less cabinets.
Appliances built so cleanly into the walls you’d think there were none.
Everything gleams in that shiny, brand new and unused state.
There are no dishes in the sink. No half-empty mug by the coffee machine. No crumbs on the counter.
The room is lifeless. And yet—somehow—it doesn’t feel empty.
Justin moves through the space behind me, unhurried, letting me take it in at my own pace. He doesn’t explain unless I ask. Doesn’t point out features like this is something he’s proud of. That tells me more than the penthouse ever could.
“Do you even live here?” I ask eventually, my voice quieter than I intend.
He doesn’t take offense.
“I don’t,” he replies easily. “Not really.”
I turn to look at him.
“Most nights I’m at the office,” he adds. “Or at the church.”
Of course he is. The man builds sanctuaries for other people and sleeps wherever the work demands. The thought tightens something in my chest I don’t have a name for yet.
He shows me the bedrooms next. There are five of them. Each one is immaculate, with its own bathroom—stone tiles, rainfall showers, deep tubs that look like they’ve never been filled. Towels folded with precision. Mirrors without the benefit of fingerprints.
They feel like hotel rooms.
Places people pass through. Not places they stay.
“Pick any room you want,” he tells me. “The choice is yours.”
The freedom of that should feel reassuring. Instead, it feels heavy.
“Where do you sleep?” I ask. Because I don’t want to take his room. That would just be wrong on so many levels.
He hesitates just long enough for me to notice, then leads me down the hall to the far end of the penthouse. He opens the door and steps aside.
This room is no different to the others, which is probably why I couldn’t guess it was his.
The bed is large, neatly made, dark linens pulled tight like they’re never disturbed. The furniture is minimal. Dark wood. Clean edges. There’s no clutter or personal photos, and no traces of indulgence past the actual residence itself.
The art above the bed mirrors the one in the living room—angular, restrained, a study in contrast and fracture.
This room feels like him.
Contained. Controlled. Built for rest and comfort.
I stand in the doorway longer than I mean to, taking it all in. The silence stretches, but he doesn’t rush me. He just waits.
Finally, I turn my head and look back at him.
“Do you mind?” I ask.
The question feels bigger than the words suggest.
Do you mind if I take this space? Do you mind if I cross this line? Do you mind if I stay?
His answer comes without hesitation.
“No,” he says. “I don’t mind.”
Steam lingers in the air from my shower, fogging the mirror just enough that my reflection looks slightly unreal. I’m wearing my favourite nightshirt—thin, worn, too big on me, but it’s more than comfortable. It hangs to mid-thigh. My hair is damp, pushed back, my skin still flushed.
I’m focused on my almost non-existent skincare ritual when I feel Justin moving in the bedroom. I smooth moisturizer over my cheeks and under my eyes.
I glance up in the mirror and catch him in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded against his chest.
He’s standing completely still. And his eyes aren’t on my face. They’re lower. My instincts snap awake instantly.
I follow his gaze down my own body, already knowing what he sees.
The scar on my leg catches the light—there’s no hiding it in this space.
It never learned how to be discreet. It runs jagged and uneven from my ankle up my calf, stopping just shy of my knee.
Raised ridges of pink and pale flesh, the skin warped and bubbled where it healed wrong.
It’s the part of me I never look at for long. The part I pretend isn’t there.
My hand stills on my cheek. I feel heat rush up my neck, sharp and unwelcome. My shoulders tense, instinctive, protective. I shift my weight, angling my body away from him.
Ugly, my mind supplies immediately. Broken. Ruined.
I reach for the hem of the shirt, tugging it down without thinking.
“Rowan.”
His voice is quiet. I turn anyway, because pretending I don’t see what he sees feels worse than facing it.
He hasn’t moved. His eyes are still fixed there, but his expression isn’t what I expect. There’s no recoil or discomfort. He doesn’t make an effort to politely look away.
“Don’t,” I say automatically, my voice tightening as I try to step past him. “You don’t have to—”
He reaches out and catches my wrist gently, stopping me. He applies just enough pressure to calm me.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “I never want you to hide from me.”
I swallow. My throat burns.
“It’s—” I stop, frustrated. “It’s not exactly something people admire.”
His grip tightens, refusing to let go. He steps closer, close enough now that I can feel the warmth of him, the solid reality of his presence.
“It’s my favourite part of you.”
I laugh once, sharp and brittle. “That’s not even funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
My eyes sting. I hate that it’s happening. Hate that this—this—is what breaks me. Not the past catching up with me in ugly, relentless waves, but the way he’s looking at something I learned to hate. And accepting it.
“This is the worst part of me,” I say quietly. “The part I can’t erase. The part everyone sees first.”
He lifts my hand slowly, bringing it to rest against his chest. I can feel his heartbeat under my palm-it’s a steady drumbeat.
“This,” he whispers softly, “is proof that you survived.”
I shake my head. “It’s proof of everything that came afterward.”
He doesn’t argue with that. Doesn’t try to spin it. He just steps closer, close enough that my back nearly touches the counter.
“There is nothing about you,” his voice is low and certain, “nothing, Rowan, that I don’t accept. That I don’t want. That I don’t love without condition.”
Love.
The word hangs there, heavy and terrifying. I think I may have misheard him.
My chest tightens, breath hitching despite my effort to keep it together. Tears blur my vision, uninvited and humiliating.
He lifts his hand to cup my jaw, thumb brushing softly under my eye, catching the tear before it can fall.
“You don’t have to be whole for me,” he adds. “You don’t have to be unmarked.”
I close my eyes then, because I can’t hold his gaze anymore. Because the way he says it makes me feel seen in a way that hurts almost as much as it heals.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
Then I lean forward, pressing my forehead against his chest, breathing him in. He wraps his arms around me without hesitation, holding me close to him.
And for the first time, standing there in his bathroom with my scars bare and my defenses gone, I don’t feel like something that needs to be fixed.
I feel… loved.