15. Breaking Open
Breaking Open
Rowan
T he stranger's voice drifted from the bedroom doorway, casual and satisfied. “Hey, there's someone in your kitchen.”
I was still sprawled across the sheets, naked and sticky with sweat, my brain sluggish from afternoon sex and the whiskey I'd been nursing since noon. It took a moment for his words to register, another moment to process what they meant.
“What?” I pushed myself up on my elbows, sheets falling away from my chest.
“Older guy. Gray hair. Looks like he owns the place.” He was pulling on his jeans, movements quick and efficient now that the spell was broken. “Should I be worried about a jealous husband or something?”
My blood went cold. There was only one person it could be. “Fuck.”
I rolled out of bed and grabbed the first clothes I could find, pulling on boxer briefs and a t-shirt that smelled like sex and regret. The stranger was already fully dressed, checking his phone with the detached air of someone whose afternoon entertainment had suddenly gotten complicated.
“I should probably go,” he said, not meeting my eyes.
“Yeah. Probably.”
I walked him through the main room toward the door, hyperaware of my bare feet on the cold floor, of how I must look with my hair a mess and my skin still flushed. Elias was standing at the kitchen counter like he belonged there, coat still on, his face an unreadable mask of calm.
But I caught the way his eyes tracked over me, taking in my disheveled state, the marks I could feel blooming on my neck and shoulders. There was something dark in his expression, something that made my pulse quicken for reasons I didn't want to examine.
“Had a good time,” the stranger said to me, loud enough for Elias to hear. His grin was lazy, satisfied, the look of a man who'd gotten exactly what he'd come for. “Text me sometime.”
“Yeah, sure,” I muttered, already knowing I wouldn't.
The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with Elias and the weight of whatever had just happened. The apartment felt smaller suddenly, the air thick with tension and the lingering scent of sex.
My body went rigid, blood humming in my ears like white noise. “How the hell did you get in here?”
“The door was unlocked,” Elias said evenly, no apology in his tone. His voice was steady, but there was something underneath it, something that made my skin prickle with awareness.
“That's not an invitation.” The words came out sharper than I'd intended, but I was too rattled to care about diplomacy. “This is my space.”
Elias didn't flinch, didn't step back, didn't show any of the normal human responses to being yelled at by someone half-naked and clearly unhinged. “I was checking in. That's all. ”
“Checking in?” I let out a bitter laugh that scraped against my throat. “Or checking up?”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the only sign that my words had hit their target. “Does it matter?”
“It matters to me,” I said finally, crossing my arms over my chest. The movement pulled my t-shirt tight, and I saw Elias's eyes flicker downward before snapping back to my face.
“I was worried about you.” His voice was quieter now, more honest.
“Well, as you can see, I'm fine.” I gestured at myself, at the apartment, at the evidence of my latest attempt to feel something other than hollow. “Perfectly fucking fine.”
But even as I said it, I knew it was a lie. I wasn't fine. Hadn't been fine for two years, maybe longer. The sex, the drinking, the careful distance I kept from anything that might require actual emotion, it was all just elaborate theater designed to convince myself I was still functional.
Elias studied me with those blue-gray eyes that seemed to see too much. “Are you?”
The answer was no, obviously no, had been no for so long I'd forgotten what fine felt like. But admitting that would mean admitting that I needed help, needed him, needed something I couldn't name and couldn't afford to want.
“I don't need a babysitter,” I said instead, moving to the couch and dropping into it hard. The cushions wheezed under my weight, springs protesting years of abuse. “I'm a grown man who can make his own choices.”
“Even when those choices are destroying you?”
The words cut deeper than they had any right to. I tipped my head back against the couch, staring at the water-stained ceiling as if it might provide answers to questions I was afraid to ask.
“What do you want from me, Elias?” The exhaustion in my voice surprised me. When had I gotten so tired? “You want me to be someone I'm not? Want me to pretend I'm not fucked up beyond repair?”
He moved from the kitchen to the chair across from me, settling into it with the careful movements of someone who was trying not to spook a wild animal. His coat was still buttoned up to his throat, like he wasn't sure if he was staying or going.
“I want you to want help,” he said simply.
“Help.” I rolled the word around on my tongue like it was foreign. “From you.”
“From someone. Anyone. Fuck, Rowan, you're drinking yourself to death and using strangers like medication that isn't working.”
The brutal honesty of it made me flinch. Because he was right, wasn't he? The endless parade of men, the bottles of whiskey, the careful numbness I'd cultivated like a garden, none of it was working. If anything, it was making everything worse.
“You think I don't know what I'm doing to myself?” The question came out raw, scraping against my throat like sandpaper.
“I think you know exactly what you're doing. That's what scares me.”
He was scared for me. About me. The knowledge settled in my chest like a weight, warm and terrifying at the same time.
“Why do you care?” I asked, and the vulnerability in my voice made me want to take the words back immediately.
“Because she would have cared.” His voice was quiet, careful. “Because you're her son, and she loved you more than anything in the world.”
“But she's dead.” The words came out flat, matter-of-fact. “She's been dead for two years, and caring about me isn't going to bring her back. ”
“No,” he agreed. “It's not.”
“So why?” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, trying to read his expression in the dim light of the apartment. “Why do you give a shit what happens to me?”
For a moment, he didn't answer. Just sat there looking at me with an expression I couldn't decipher, something that might have been pain or want or both.
“I don't know,” he said finally, and the honesty of it hit harder than any lie would have.
The silence stretched between us, thick enough to drown in. Outside, I could hear the sounds of Harbor's End settling into evening: cars passing on the street below, the distant cry of seagulls, the ever-present whisper of wind off the ocean.
Inside, there was only the sound of our breathing and the electric tension that seemed to fill every inch of space between us.
“You were watching,” I said suddenly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
Elias went very still. “What?”
“Earlier. When I was...” I gestured vaguely toward the bedroom. “You were watching.”
The flush that crept up his neck told me everything I needed to know. He'd been there, in my doorway, watching me with another man. The knowledge should have made me angry, should have felt like a violation. Instead, it sent heat pooling low in my belly, dangerous and unwelcome.
“I wasn't...” he started, then stopped. “The door was open.”
“That's not a denial.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It's not.”
The admission crackled between us like electricity. I could see the shame in his face, the self-recrimination, but underneath it was something hungrier. Something that matched the heat building in my own chest .
“Did you like what you saw?” The question was out before I could think better of it, reckless and loaded with implications neither of us was ready for.
Elias's breathing changed, became more shallow. “Rowan.”
“It's a simple question.”
“No, it's not.” He ran a hand through his hair, the careful composure finally starting to crack. “Nothing about this is simple.”
“Because I'm her son.”
“Because you're twenty-six and I'm old enough to know better.” His voice was rough now, strained. “Because you're vulnerable and the last thing you need is some older man taking advantage of that.”
“What if I want you to take advantage?”
I watched Elias's face change, saw the exact moment when his control started to slip. His pupils dilated, his hands clenched into fists on his knees, and I could see the pulse jumping in his throat.
“You don't mean that,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.
“Don't I?” I stood up slowly, aware of how the movement made my t-shirt ride up, exposing a strip of skin above my boxer briefs. “You've been thinking about it, haven't you? About what it would be like.”
“Stop.” The word came out like a plea.
“About touching me. About what I'd sound like if you made me come.” I took a step closer, close enough to see the way his breathing had changed, the way his eyes kept flickering to my mouth. “About whether I'd be as responsive with you as I was with him.”
“Jesus Christ, Rowan.” Elias was on his feet now, backing away like I was something dangerous. “You don't know what you're saying. ”
“I know exactly what I'm saying.” Another step closer, close enough to smell his cologne, clean and masculine and absolutely intoxicating. “The question is whether you're going to do anything about it.”
For a moment, we just stared at each other. The air between us was charged, electric, crackling with tension that made it hard to breathe. I could see the war playing out on his face, desire fighting with propriety, want battling with the knowledge that this was wrong on every level that mattered.
Then, just when I thought he might close the distance between us, might give in to whatever this was, he stepped back.
“I can't,” he said, and the words sounded like they were being torn from his throat. “I won't.”