18. Chapter 18
Chapter 18
T he world was spinning.
Rosie knew she was wasted beyond reason, past the point of even pretending she was in control. Her feet felt like bricks, her head a mess of wine and heartbreak and Isaac and more Isaac and why the fuck was it always Isaac?
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been walking—just that she kept taking turns that didn’t make sense, kept stumbling over the sand, losing her heels at some point, her bare feet scraping pavement.
Her eyes burned, her face sticky from sweat and tears. She kept muttering curses to herself, yelling at no one, yelling at him, yelling at the goddamn universe.
And then—
She looked up.
And there it was.
Isaac’s house.
Fuck.
She let out a shaky, wine-soaked breath, staring at it, her vision doubling.
God. Fate. Cruel fucking fate.
Her legs finally gave up on her, and she slumped down onto the front step, her arms wrapping around her knees.
And then, finally, she let herself go.
The tears came hard, fast, ugly.
A full, body-shaking, stomach-aching sob that tore out of her like it had been waiting all goddamn year.
She was so fucking tired.
Of wanting him.
Of needing him.
Of never being enough for him.
And of course—of fucking course—as soon as she let herself break, let herself unravel completely—
Warm hands were on her.
Big. Familiar. Steady, even though he was just as goddamn drunk.
“Oh, baby, come here,” Isaac’s voice was low, rough, too full of something she couldn’t handle right now.
She was too far gone to fight it.
The next thing she knew, he was pulling her up, lifting her, carrying her like she weighed nothing.
She mumbled something into his chest, but his body was so warm, his scent so dizzying—whiskey, cigarettes, something undeniably him—that she forgot how to be angry.
The door swung open.
He brought her inside.
And then, just warmth.
The weight of his arms around her, the quiet of the house, the steadiness of him holding her together when she had nothing left except nausea and wine.
She let out a soft, broken breath.
Let herself sink into him.
Because for now, just for now—
It was easier than falling apart.
Everything was spinning as he carried her through the house. And within two minutes, Rosie’s knees were hitting the bathroom floor, her fingers gripping the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl as the nausea slammed through her in waves.
God. Wine vomit.
The absolute worst.
Her stomach heaved, and then she was losing it all— everything she’d swallowed down, every ounce of alcohol, every unsaid word, every buried heartbreak. It all came up.
And Isaac was there.
Holding her hair back.
Rubbing slow, steady circles on her back.
Not saying anything, just being there, just keeping her together when she felt like she was breaking apart.
The next wave hit, and she gasped between sobs, spitting out the sour remnants, tears burning hot down her face.
This was it.
This was rock bottom.
And yet, Isaac still hadn’t left.
Her stomach finally settled, but everything else was still spinning, spinning, spinning.
Her cheek hit the cool rim of the toilet, her breath shaky, uneven.
Isaac exhaled roughly, shaking his head.
“Jesus, Coco,” he muttered, adjusting his grip in her hair, brushing it away from her damp face. “You won’t remember this, but… fuck it. Let me tell you the truth.”
Rosie just breathed, barely able to lift her head, too drained to fight him.
Isaac kept his touch steady, his voice low and rough, like something was crawling up his throat and he couldn’t stop it.
“I don’t deserve you,” he said, his fingers moving in slow, mindless strokes against her back. “And I know that’s too easy to say. But this isn’t bullshit. It’s just facts.”
She let out a soft, wrecked breath, eyes barely open.
“Like, who do I date?” he continued, voice thick. “Hot bitches. Easy fucks. No commitment. That’s my life. That’s what it is.”
Rosie let out a broken little laugh, hoarse and bitter.
“Yeah, no shit,” she rasped.
Isaac huffed a laugh too, shaking his head.
“You know what it’s like for me now? Going out with a real chick and admitting no, I haven’t had a serious girlfriend. No, I haven’t lived with a woman. No, I’m fucking thirty-two, and it’s pretty goddamn evident that I’m a selfish bachelor who will always be.”
His fingers kept moving over her back, his thumb tracing little patterns against the curve of her spine.
“Any chick worth her salt sees right through me,” he admitted, voice quiet. “I know what I am. I just live with it now. SEAL. Hot. Fuck. Yup. Done. Nothing serious. No. I’ll be a cool uncle.”
Rosie’s eyes flickered shut, her stomach still uneasy, but her mind was slowly clearing.
And then—
Isaac inhaled deep, his grip firm, like he was holding onto her for dear life.
“But with you?”
A long pause.
She didn’t move.
“Yeah, everything I said is true,” he said, voice raw. “You aren’t my type. And that’s a fucking compliment.”
Her breath hitched.
Isaac’s jaw ticked.
“No, I haven’t fucked you. No, I don’t want you to hate me like every other goddamn chick I’ve laid and left. Broken hearts everywhere. They all fall in love. But I don’t.”
He swallowed hard.
“I’m not gonna do that to you.”
Her heart lurched, something heavy pressing against her ribs.
“I’ve never been in love before,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “So why start now?”
The words hung between them, thick and heavy, suffocating.
Rosie let out a shaky breath, gripping the edge of the toilet like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.
Isaac kept rubbing her back, his fingers gentle, grounding.
And for the first time, she realized—
Even at her worst.
Even like this.
He was still here.
The world was still tilted, spinning, her body heavy and weak, but she was coming back to herself—slowly, painfully.
Isaac was still there.
Still holding her up, still rubbing slow circles against her back, still keeping her together.
Her skin felt damp and sticky, her throat raw, her body so drained she could barely move.
Then, she felt him.
Gentle hands.
Warm fingers wiping her face with a damp cloth, dragging it softly over her lips, her chin, her neck.
“Stay with me, Coco,” he said, voice low, thick with something she didn’t have the strength to name.
She groaned, leaning into him, her body too exhausted to resist.
She felt the brush of his fingers at the button of her jeans.
She whined in protest, half-hearted at best.
“Ugh,” she mumbled, her head dropping against his shoulder.
He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he worked her jeans down.
“I’ve seen you naked,” he muttered, easing them over her thighs, helping her step out.
Rosie groaned again, half-annoyed, half-too-fucking-tired-to-care.
“Just let me help,” he said.
And God, she did.
Because he was gentle.
Because his hands were steady, because he was treating her like something precious, not some wasted idiot who got too drunk and ruined everything.
Her blouse came next.
His fingers worked slowly, carefully, undoing each button, brushing against her skin so lightly it made her shiver.
When the fabric slipped from her shoulders, leaving her bare except for the thin scrap of her bra and underwear, Isaac let out a long, slow breath.
Not touching her like he wanted more.
Touching her like he needed her to be okay.
Then—
The shower.
Warm steam curled into the air, soft and hazy, making the world feel quiet, muted, safe.
He was bringing her in with him, his body pressed against hers, keeping her upright.
Her knees nearly buckled when the first stream of hot water hit her skin, and he caught her instantly, wrapping his arms around her waist, holding her up.
“Easy,” he said, tucking her against his chest, letting the water cascade over them both.
She let out a soft, broken breath, her head tipping forward, forehead resting against his shoulder.
His hands were everywhere.
Not hungry. Not desperate. Just careful.
He was washing her.
Running soapy hands down her back, over her arms, along her stomach, rubbing slow, steady circles into her skin.
Fingers tangling in her hair, working shampoo through the strands, massaging her scalp until she melted against him.
She let her hands drift up, pressing lightly against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.
Then—
A bottle against her lips.
Isaac tilted her chin up, pressing cool plastic against her mouth.
“Drink,” he ordered softly.
She opened her lips, letting him tip the bottle of electrolyte water forward, letting the cool liquid soothe her raw throat.
She swallowed, then coughed lightly, and he was already rubbing her back again, already tipping the bottle forward for another sip.
Then, she felt a pill against her palm.
She blinked blearily up at him.
“Advil,” he said.
She took it, swallowing with another sip of water.
And then, when she finally looked at him—really looked at him—her chest tightened.
He was watching her.
Watching her like he had never seen anything like her before.
Like she was the first thing that had ever made sense.
His eyes scanned her face, his hands still smoothing over her skin, still anchoring her to him.
Her fingers curled into his chest, her breath uneven, shallow.
This man.
This stupid, reckless, infuriating man.
This man who made her crazy, made her weak, made her want.
And now—
He was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
The world was still soft and hazy, the heat from the shower lingering on her skin, but Rosie was sober enough now to understand exactly what was happening.
Isaac got her out of the shower, arms strong and steady, his hands never leaving her body.
The cool air hit her damp skin, and she shivered, but before she could say anything, he was already there.
Already wrapping a towel around her shoulders, already smoothing another over her hair, already kneeling slightly to press one to her legs, drying her off with slow, firm strokes.
His fingers trailed down her arms, the movement so careful, so unhurried, so unlike him.
She swallowed, breathing hard, but her body was heavy, weak, exhausted from the night.
She let him.
Just let him take care of her.
When he was done, he pressed a fresh t-shirt into her hands—his t-shirt.
“Put this on,” he said.
She didn’t argue.
Just slipped it over her head, feeling the fabric swallow her up, the lingering warmth of his skin, his scent, his presence wrapping around her.
She caught a quick glimpse of herself in the mirror—hair damp, face flushed, eyes too bright—and muttered, “Gimme a sec.”
Isaac just nodded, stepping back, letting her grab a toothbrush and brush away the last bitter taste of the night.
By the time she was done, he was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her.
The look in his eyes—something unreadable, something deep, something dangerous—sent a fresh shiver through her.
She ignored it.
Didn’t trust herself to analyze it.
Didn’t trust him.
Instead, she stepped past him, back into the bedroom, slipping under the covers, feeling the weight of exhaustion finally crash over her.
And then—
He was there.
Pulling her against him.
His body big, warm, steady, the heat of his chest pressing into her back.
His lips found the curve of her shoulder, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses, slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world.
Her breath caught.
His arm tightened around her waist, his nose nudging the damp strands of her hair aside, lips dragging up her neck, over the shell of her ear.
She shivered.
“Sleep,” he said, voice rough, low.
She exhaled, eyes slipping shut.
His lips pressed to her temple, fingers smoothing slow, steady lines down her arm. And as the exhaustion finally pulled her under, she let herself believe—just for tonight, just for this one moment—that she was safe.