6. Chapter 6
Chapter 6
R osie sat rigid in the passenger seat, arms crossed, staring out the window like a hostage.
Isaac’s truck rumbled through the city, streetlights flashing across the windshield in quiet, rhythmic pulses.
He hadn’t spoken since pulling onto the road, and she was fine with that.
Silence was good.
Silence meant she didn’t have to acknowledge the weight in the truck, the strange, lingering tension sitting between them, the way she could still feel his hands on her waist from when he lifted her into the damn seat.
Nope. Silence was fine.
And then—
“You hungry?”
Rosie rolled her eyes toward him. “No.”
Isaac didn’t even look at her.
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
He made a low humming sound, one hand tapping absently against the wheel. “You probably haven’t eaten all day.”
Rosie glared. “I’m fine.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
Her jaw clenched.
He glanced over, one brow lifting. Daring her.
Rosie’s stomach betrayed her with a low, shameful growl.
Isaac smirked. “That’s what I thought.”
She huffed, annoyed, but mostly at herself.
And then—**to make matters worse—**he turned into an In-N-Out drive-thru.
Rosie exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Unbelievable.”
“Shut up, you love it,” Isaac said, rolling down his window.
She did.
And he knew it.
Because it was their place.
Since they were kids, since they were broke, since they scraped together couch change for a double-double and fought over who got the extra fries.
The familiarity of it hit her deep.
And she hated that she softened—just a little.
Isaac placed their usual order without asking.
Then he pulled into a parking spot, put the truck in park, and handed her a perfectly greasy paper bag with their food.
And just like that, they were kids again.
Just like that, some of the weight lifted.
The first few bites were silent.
Not tense, not loaded. Just… comfortable.
Rosie sipped her shake, sighed softly, and let herself sink into the moment.
Isaac unwrapped his burger, stretching his legs out as he leaned back against the seat, exhaling like he was finally letting go of something too.
“You’ve been gone a long time,” she said, breaking the quiet.
Isaac smirked around a bite of his burger. “Miss me?”
Rosie rolled her eyes. “No.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Lying again. So transparent.”
“What’s there to miss? I hardly hear from you anymore.”
“You never respond, so what’s the point?”
She ignored him, stealing one of his fries just to be a menace.
Isaac flicked her hand away, stealing one of hers in retaliation.
“Hey—”
“Tax,” he said, chewing smugly.
“Fine.” Rosie huffed, leaning back. “Where have you even been?”
Isaac hesitated.
For a second, she thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then he sighed, giving in. “Shouldn’t tell you, but… Egypt, Bahrain, Philippines. Spent a few weeks freezing my ass off in Norway. Then back to the Middle East. You know. Here, there, everywhere.”
Rosie took a sip of her shake, considering. “What’s Norway like?”
Isaac smirked. “Fucking cold.”
She snorted. “Yeah, no shit. Details, Rayleigh.”
Isaac wiped his mouth with a napkin, thinking. “Snow’s different there. It’s so dry, it’s like powder. You can grab a handful, and it’s like dust slipping through your fingers.”
Rosie tilted her head, intrigued. “That sounds beautiful.”
Isaac shrugged. “Would’ve been if I wasn’t neck-deep in it for twelve hours straight.”
Rosie laughed, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”
Isaac grinned, popping another fry into his mouth.
But then—her hand darted out again.
Another fry.
Isaac grabbed her wrist before she could escape.
Warm. Solid. The brush of his fingers on her pulse.
The air shifted.
Something struck him deep, sharp, unexpected.
Rosie stilled.
Isaac did too.
Then, just as fast—
He let go.
Let her take the fry.
Let her win.
Because touching her was a problem.
And he didn’t need any more fucking problems.
They kept eating, kept talking, falling back into an easy rhythm.
Rosie asked about weird military shit—what he ate on missions (MREs, trash), if SEALs really ate raw fish out of the ocean (yes, but only when desperate), whether he’d ever jumped out of a plane (of course).
Isaac teased her for not knowing how to swim properly, for still hating running, for stealing his fries like some things never changed.
She smiled. For real this time.
And Isaac—for the first time all fucking night—seemed to relax.
Because even if she was mad.
Even if things were broken.
Even if she wasn’t his anymore, not in the way she used to be—
This was still home.
And she wasn’t ready to lose that yet.
* * * * *
A few minutes later, Isaac pulled out of the parking lot, one hand lazily gripping the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift. The warm night air filtered through the cracked window, carrying the distant scent of salt and asphalt, mixing with the lingering grease of their late-night burgers. The city hummed around them, streetlights flashing across the windshield in quiet, rhythmic pulses.
Rosie sat rigid in the passenger seat, arms crossed, staring out at the moving landscape like she wished she were anywhere else. She tried not to notice him.
Tried not to notice the way his forearm flexed when he turned the wheel, the way his fingers tapped idly against the leather, the effortless command he had over everything. It had always been that way with him—Isaac moved through the world like it bent to his will, and most of the time, it did. Even now, in the quiet of the drive, his presence was loud, all heat and physicality, the hum of restrained energy always lingering beneath his skin.
She didn’t want to remember how easy this used to be. How many nights they’d spent just like this—him driving, her beside him, a bag of In-N-Out between them, talking about nothing and everything. How, once upon a time, there had been no space between them, no tension, no sharp edges waiting to draw blood.
She didn’t want to remember, but she did.
The bridge to Coronado stretched before them, the dark ocean glimmering beneath the glow of the city behind them. She hadn’t been to his place before. He’d lived here for two years, and somehow, she’d never stepped foot inside. Funny, considering how many places she used to follow him into without hesitation. At some point, she’d stopped visiting him alone.
It had been too painful.
Too many forgotten traces of other women—a pair of earrings on his nightstand, the lingering scent of unfamiliar perfume, the casual way he never seemed to care about any of it. Seeing it had made her feel stupid, like she was torturing herself for no reason. So she’d pulled away, made excuses, stopped showing up. And now, here she was, about to walk into his house for the first time.
The truck rumbled into his driveway, rolling to a slow stop in front of a house that was surprisingly beautiful. It wasn’t the careless bachelor pad she’d expected, but a small, modern beach house tucked neatly into the quiet town center. It was the kind of place that suited him more than she wanted to admit—clean lines, a laid-back elegance, sitting right on the sand like it had always belonged to him.
She glanced at him as he cut the engine, stretching his arms over his head with a low groan before slumping back against the seat.
“Didn’t know you bought a place,” she said.
Isaac smirked, turning his head toward her. “Yeah? Guess you stopped visiting before I could show you.”
She didn’t answer, just unbuckled her seatbelt and pushed the door open. He did the same, moving around to the back to grab her duffel before she could protest.
She followed him up the steps, the scent of salt stronger here, the crash of waves just beyond the house. Inside, the space was warm, lived-in but undeniably him. Clean, simple, a little rugged around the edges. There was a stack of unopened mail on the kitchen counter, a few stray boots near the door, and his dive gear neatly packed in one corner of the room.
He tossed her duffel onto the couch before turning to face her, arms crossed over his broad chest, expression unreadable.
“So,” he said, voice casual but laced with something she couldn’t quite name. “What’s the deal with you and soy boy?”
Rosie sighed, dragging a hand through her hair. “Nothing. He’s interested. I’m not.”
Isaac watched her for a beat, the flicker of something sharp in his gaze. “Then why keep him around?”
She shrugged, kicking off her heels. “It’s not like I have lineups.”
Isaac’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t amusement. It was something else. Something darker.
And then he took a step toward her.
Not too close. But close enough that she felt the weight of his presence, the shift in the air, the way his eyes pinned her in place like he was seeing her differently.
“You’re gorgeous, Quentin,” he said, voice quieter now, lower.
Her breath caught.
Isaac tilted his head slightly, studying her.
“Talented. Smart as hell. Why don’t you know that?”
The words landed too deep, pressing against something she didn’t know how to acknowledge. She swallowed hard, unable to look away.
The silence stretched, charged and unnerving.
Then, just as fast, he broke it.
“Guest room’s down the hall,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Clean towels in the closet. Go get some sleep.”
She nodded slowly, pulse still racing.
“Yeah,” she said. “Okay.”
But as she turned, heading toward the bathroom, she knew nothing about tonight was going to let her rest.
* * * * *
The house was quiet, except for the faint crash of waves outside, the distant hum of a car rolling through the sleepy Coronado streets. Rosie lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her body restless and warm under the weight of the night.
She was wearing an oversized black t-shirt, the only thing she had to sleep in, the hem barely skimming the tops of her thighs. Her skin was still too heated from the day, from the residual buzz of success, from the tension that had been knotting tighter and tighter inside her since the moment she stepped into Isaac’s truck.
Isaac.
God.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t help.
He was still there, burned into her thoughts. The sharp lines of his jaw, the way his forearms flexed as he gripped the steering wheel. The deep, lazy rasp of his voice when he told her she was gorgeous. Like it was just a fact. Like it wasn’t the single most dangerous thing he could have said to her.
She sighed, turning onto her side, but sleep wouldn’t come.
Her throat was dry.
She needed water.
Or maybe she just needed something to do that wasn’t lying here, stewing in her own insanity.
Kicking the blankets off, she padded softly into the hallway, the cool floor grounding her, the dim light from the kitchen barely spilling into the corridor. But as she took a step toward the sink, she hesitated.
Isaac’s bedroom door was ajar.
Her breath hitched.
She shouldn’t.
She should keep walking.
Instead, she took a step closer.
And then another.
Slow. Silent.
The dim blue-gray light from the window stretched across his room, illuminating the long, powerful lines of his body.
Rosie’s mouth went dry.
Isaac was sprawled on his back, one arm draped lazily over his stomach, the other stretched above his head, fingers curled against the pillow. The sheets were low—dangerously low—clinging to his hips, revealing the sculpted ridges of his stomach, the deep cut of his obliques.
She swallowed hard.
Jesus.
He was—
Fuck.
Her eyes dragged over him, slow and shameless.
The smooth plane of his chest, rising and falling with steady breaths. The muscle carved into his arms, ink curling over his skin, shifting with every slight movement.
She had never let herself look at him like this.
Not really.
Not without forcing herself to shove it down, to ignore the truth buried deep in her bones—
That he was beautiful.
That she had wanted him for as long as she could remember.
Her breath shook, knees weak, something tight and needy pooling deep in her belly.
He looked so… untouchable.
So effortlessly masculine, so strong and warm and familiar, so close she could almost feel the heat of him radiating through the air.
She wanted—
No.
No, she didn’t.
She needed to leave. Now.
She took a step back, forcing herself to breathe, to shake it off—
And then his eyes opened.
Dark. Dazed. Pinning her instantly in place.
Rosie’s breath hitched violently.
Isaac didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just watched her.
And she?
She stood there, caught, barely breathing, barely standing, melting under the weight of his gaze.
The air between them was thick, electric, humming with something sharp and unspoken.
Her body betrayed her.
Skin flushed, knees weak, heat spreading low and unforgiving inside her.
She should say something.
She should turn around.
She should—
But she didn’t.
She just stood there, staring at the one man she could never have.
The silence between them stretched, thick and unspoken, the weight of it pressing against Rosie’s skin like a slow-building fever.
Then, in the dark—his voice.
Low. Smooth. The sound of it sinking into her bones.
“Can’t sleep?”
Her breath shivered.
“No.”
“Come here.”
She should say no.
She should turn around, walk back to bed, pretend this moment never happened.
“I shouldn’t,” she whispered.
“I know,” Isaac said. “Come anyway.”
And she did.
Her feet carried her forward, slow and unsure, but she came.
He shifted beneath the sheets, pulling back the blanket, and without thinking—without questioning—she slid in beside him.
His arms wrapped around her, strong and warm, pulling her into the shape of him. His bare chest pressed against her back, his breath ghosting along her hairline, his body heat soaking into her skin.
She closed her eyes, melting.
He breathed her in like he’d been waiting for this. Like he needed this.
“I’ll admit it,” he said, his lips brushing just barely against her temple. “I missed you.”
Something inside her fractured.
A laugh bubbled up, soft and dangerously close to something else.
She curled her fingers around his arm, holding on. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
They laid there, wrapped in something heavy, dangerous, familiar.
For a minute, maybe two.
Then, she asked the question she shouldn’t.
“You asked me who I’m dating,” she said. “But you didn’t tell me who you are dating. Too many to count?”
Isaac huffed a laugh, the sound vibrating against her back.
“Not too many,” he mused. Then, after a beat, “But yeah. I met someone six months ago.”
Rosie went still.
Too still.
Isaac’s grip on her didn’t change, but she felt the shift, the shift inside herself. The sudden drop in her stomach, the way her fingers went numb against his skin.
He continued, oblivious to the way her heart clenched.
“She’s French. Elodie,” he said, voice easy, like it didn’t cost him anything to say it. “Met her in St. Barts on a diving trip with Dom. She doesn’t live here, so it’s just been a long-distance thing. We’ve met up a few times since then.”
Rosie swallowed. “So it’s… a thing?”
Isaac hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then, reluctantly, “It’s a thing.”
But he was still holding her.
Still breathing into her hair.
Still wrapped around her like she was the one he wanted here.
She forced herself to relax against him.
To keep her voice level.
To pretend like this didn’t feel like a blade sliding between her ribs.
“Cool, cool,” she whispered.
And then she closed her eyes, wishing she could disappear into the dark.