27. The Rest Between Notes #2
“Wait.” Something cold settled in my stomach. “How did you even find me? I never gave you my address.”
There was a pause on his end, long enough that I could hear the ambient noise of the city through the phone. Traffic, distant voices, the eternal hum of New York that never quite went quiet.
“I asked around,” he said finally. “Called some contacts in the music industry. People who know people. It wasn't hard to track down where Harbor's End's prodigal son ended up.”
“You had people looking for me?”
“I had people who owed me favors make a few phone calls. Your name's not exactly unknown in certain circles, Rowan. Talented musicians from small towns don't disappear completely, especially when they've got the kind of raw ability you do.”
The determination in his voice was new, different from the careful control he'd always maintained. Like he'd made some decision that had changed the fundamental equation between us.
“Fine,” I said, though every instinct I had was screaming that this was a mistake. “But if you're here to deliver another speech about inappropriate relationships and timing, you can save us both the trouble.”
“I'm here to tell you the truth.”
The line went dead, and I was left staring at my phone like it might explain what the hell was happening. Elias was downstairs. In New York. With truth he claimed I needed to hear.
I looked around my apartment, taking in the chaos of empty takeout containers and unwashed clothes, the evidence of a week spent falling apart in private. Not exactly the impression I wanted to make, but it was too late to pretend I had my shit together.
The knock came five minutes later, soft but insistent.
I opened the door to find Elias standing in my hallway, suitcase at his feet, looking like he'd driven straight through without stopping.
His usually perfect hair was messed, his coat wrinkled, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion that went deeper than just physical tiredness.
“You look like hell,” I said, which wasn't exactly the opening line I'd planned.
“So do you.”
We stood there for a moment, taking each other in across the threshold that separated my chaotic apartment from the hallway where he waited like a supplicant. He looked older than I remembered, worn down by whatever had driven him to make the trip to New York.
“Can I come in?”
I stepped back, letting him into my space, watching as he took in the disaster zone I'd been living in. His expression didn't change, but I caught the way his eyes lingered on the empty bottles, the scattered clothes, the general air of someone who'd stopped caring about basic human maintenance.
“Nice place,” he said, which was clearly a lie.
“It's temporary.”
“Everything with you seems to be temporary.”
The observation stung because it was true. I'd spent my whole adult life treating everything like it was temporary, never committing to anything long enough for it to hurt when it inevitably ended.
“What do you want, Elias?”
He set his suitcase down by the door, a gesture that suggested he wasn't planning to leave anytime soon. “To tell you the truth. ”
“About what?”
“About why I ended things. About what really happened.” He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up in directions that would have been charming if I wasn't so angry. “Victor gave me an ultimatum. Pictures, threats, promises to destroy your reputation if I didn't stay away from you.”
The words hit like a slap, sudden and disorienting. “What kind of pictures?”
“Surveillance photos. You walking around Harbor's End, going into bars, leaving with men. He'd been watching you, documenting everything, building a case against you that he could release whenever he wanted.”
My stomach clenched as the implications sank in. “And you believed him?”
“I believed he could hurt you. And I couldn't let that happen.”
“So you decided to hurt me yourself instead.”
The accusation hung between us, raw and immediate. Because that's what it had felt like, wasn't it? Like he'd taken everything fragile and hopeful that had been building between us and smashed it against the wall just to watch it break.
“I thought I was protecting you.”
“From what? From having feelings? From making my own choices about what risks I was willing to take?”
“From being destroyed by people who would use your sexuality and your grief as weapons against you.” His voice was getting rougher, more desperate. “From having your future poisoned by association with someone like me.”
“Someone like you?”
“Someone that deserves you more than I do.”
The self-loathing in his voice was painful to hear, but it didn't excuse what he'd done. “That wasn't your choice to make. ”
“I know that now.”
“Do you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you made the same choice Victor would have made. You decided what was best for me without asking what I wanted.”
He flinched like I'd hit him, but didn't deny it. “You're right.”
“I don't need your protection, Elias. I needed you. I needed someone who would trust me enough to let me make my own mistakes.”
The words came out rougher than I'd intended, scraped raw by a week of trying not to think about what we'd almost had. Because that was the worst part, wasn't it? Not that he'd hurt me, but that he'd thrown away something real because he was too afraid to fight for it.
“I know.”
“Then why didn't you just tell me? Why didn't you trust me enough to handle the truth?”
“Because I was scared.” The admission came out quietly, like he was confessing to a crime. “Because I'd already lost one person I loved, and the thought of losing you too, of watching you be destroyed because of me...”
“So you destroyed us yourself instead.”
“Yes.”
The simple honesty of it took the wind out of my anger, leaving behind something rawer and more painful. Because I could understand the fear, could see the twisted logic that had led him to choose certain pain over uncertain hope.
“I don't know if I can forgive you for that.”
“I know.”
“I don't know if I can trust you again.”
“I know that too.”
We stood there in the middle of my chaotic apartment, the city humming outside my windows, and I felt the weight of everything that had been broken between us. Trust, hope, the fragile beginning of something that might have been love if we'd been brave enough to let it grow.
“Then let me earn it back,” he said quietly.
“How?”
“However long it takes. However hard I have to work. However many times I have to prove that I'm not going to run when things get difficult.”
The offer hung between us, dangerous and tempting and probably a terrible idea. Because people didn't change, did they? Men who chose safety over love once would make the same choice again when the stakes got high enough.
But there was something different about him now, something in his posture and his voice that suggested he'd made some fundamental decision about what he was willing to risk.
Like he'd finally figured out that some things were worth fighting for, even if the fight was messy and complicated and didn't come with guarantees.
“You hurt me,” I said, the words barely above a whisper.
“I know.”
“You made me feel like I was asking for too much just by existing.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Sorry doesn't fix it.”
“No. It doesn't.” He took a step closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne, could see the exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes. “But maybe time will. Maybe proving that I can be better, that I can be brave enough to choose love over fear, maybe that will.”
“And if it doesn't?”
“Then at least I'll know I tried. At least I'll know I didn't give up on the best thing that's happened to me since Elaine died. ”
“I don't know if I can do this again,” I said, the admission scraping against my throat like broken glass.
“Then don't. Not yet. Just let me prove that I'm not going anywhere this time.”
He gestured toward his suitcase, still sitting by the door like a promise he wasn't sure I'd let him keep. “I don't expect anything from you. I don't expect forgiveness or trust or anything other than the chance to show you that I learned from my mistakes.”
“How long?”
“As long as it takes.”
For a moment, neither of us moved. The air felt thick, crowded with words we’d said and so many more we hadn’t.
My pulse thundered in my ears, half panic, half the old ache I’d tried to drown in music and bad decisions.
He stood there, just a step away, looking older and somehow softer—less untouchable, more real.
He moved first. Slow, cautious, like if he came at me too fast I’d disappear.
He reached up, hesitated, then cupped my face between his hands.
His palms were warm, trembling a little, thumb brushing the rough stubble on my jaw.
The touch was careful—reverent almost—like he didn’t believe he deserved to touch me but couldn’t help himself.
I shuddered at the contact, every nerve ending lighting up as if I’d been plunged into cold water.
I should have pulled back. I should have shoved his hands away, told him I wasn’t ready, that I was still too raw and angry and tired to risk being hurt again.
But I didn’t. I just stood there, letting him hold me, breathing him in.
“Rowan,” he said, voice rough, searching my face like he was afraid to look away and find me gone.
“I know I don’t have any right to ask for another chance.
I know I let fear make my choices, and I can’t erase that.
But I can promise you—whatever happens now, I won’t run.
I won’t let anyone else’s fear decide for me. Not again.”
I swallowed, eyes burning. “And if I can’t trust you? If I can’t forget how bad it hurt?”