19. Chapter 19
Chapter 19
T he alarm sliced through the silence, an obnoxious, piercing blare that made Rosie want to die on the spot.
She groaned, burying her face into the pillow, her entire body protesting.
Everything hurt.
Her head, her stomach, her fucking soul.
Isaac let out a low, guttural noise, shifting beside her.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, rubbing his face, blinking blearily at the ceiling.
Rosie peeked one eye open, just enough to watch him move.
He looked as wrecked as she felt—hair messy, eyes still dark with sleep, voice rough and gravelly—but still, the bastard was already pulling himself up, already stretching, already moving.
Of course he was.
He was Isaac Rayleigh. A goddamn machine.
He let out a long exhale, scrubbed a hand through his hair, and dragged himself into the bathroom.
A second later, she heard the shower turn on.
Rosie groaned, rolling onto her side, curling in on herself.
Nope.
She wasn’t moving.
She wasn’t doing a single goddamn thing.
Her body was cement, her skull splitting, her stomach still raw from the night before.
A few minutes later, the shower clicked off, and he was back.
Clean. Fresh. Wearing only a towel.
Rosie cracked one eye open again, immediately regretting it.
“That’s offensive,” she muttered, glaring at his perfect body.
Isaac smirked. “What is?”
She waved a weak hand at him. “That. All of it. At six in the goddamn morning.”
He chuckled, low and deep, stepping closer to the bed.
Then, without warning, he crawled over her, pressing her into the mattress, bracing his weight on his elbows.
He was too warm, too solid, too him.
Rosie’s breath hitched, body betraying her.
Isaac smirked against her cheek.
“You’re a mess, Coco,” he said.
She let out a weak groan.
“Stay here today,” he said, kissing her temple.
She blinked, frowning against his chest.
“What?”
He shifted, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear.
“Whatever you have planned, take the day off,” he said. “Stay here. Recover. Sleep. I’ll try to get back early.”
Her stomach twisted.
He was looking at her like last night meant something.
Like they were going to talk about it.
Like they were going to figure it out.
“Isaac…” she started.
He cut her off, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead.
“Promise me, Rosie,” he said. “Promise you won’t disappear.”
She swallowed, chest tight.
“I—”
“Promise me,” he said again, voice rougher.
She hesitated.
And then—
“I hate you,” she whispered.
“Say the words.”
She exhaled, staring at the ceiling.
“I promise,” she said quietly.
Isaac let out a breath, like he’d been waiting for that.
He kissed her one last time, soft and slow, before pulling back.
“Good girl,” he muttered, and then he was gone.
* * * * *
The truck rumbled down the I-5 with the windows cracked and the heater on low. The morning coastal fog hadn’t burned off yet, and everything looked hazy—washed out, soft, like a half-formed memory.
Isaac’s sunglasses sat high on the bridge of his nose, blocking the glare, hiding the bags under his eyes. His hoodie was on, hood up. No playlist. Just road noise and the low, persistent buzz of his phone lighting up in the console tray.
He didn’t look at it.
He already knew.
It was them.
The group chat was going nuclear.
Shay:
Where’s Isaac.
Colson:
No sign. Not in the cage. Not in the dive locker. Not at briefing.
Heath:
Maybe he finally drowned himself in a tank.
RIP.
Chris:
Oh no.
You think the gallery manager killed him?
Shay:
More likely:
Rosie killed him mid-sex and now wears his tags as a necklace.
Colson:
Please. If she killed him, she’d make it art.
Isaac adjusted his grip on the wheel, thumb twitching like it wanted to check the screen—but he didn’t.
Not yet.
His knuckles were tight. Too tight. His jaw flexed on instinct.
He replayed the morning on loop:
Rosie’s skin still warm where he kissed her temple.
The way she looked at him when she said, “I hate you.”
The way she promised him she’d stay.
Good girl, he’d said.
And he’d meant it.
And now he was driving to base like none of it mattered. Like he hadn’t woken up tangled around a woman who knew every part of him that wasn’t written down in a file.
Another buzz.
Then another.
He finally glanced at the screen.
The group chat was now renamed to WHERE’S ISAAC? (feat. jail or cheeks?).
Isaac let out a slow exhale.
He didn’t open it.
He just shook his head once, muttered, “Fucking children,” and hit the gas.
He had to make it through briefing. Gear check. Maybe shoot something. Definitely avoid Shay and Chris unless he wanted a recap of his own meltdown served with a side of smirks.
He reached base ten minutes later, parked in his usual spot, engine idling.
The phone buzzed again.
And again.
He picked it up.
Heath:
Okay bets:
He hit it.
He’s in jail.
Both.
Chris:
Wait.
WHAT IF THEY HOOKED UP
AND SHE STABBED HIM AFTER
FOR EMOTIONAL DAMAGE.
Shay:
Chris
Why are you turned on.
Chris:
I didn’t say I wasn’t.
Colson:
The fact that Isaac didn’t respond to any of us means either:
a) He’s dead
b) He’s happy
c) He’s dead because he’s happy
Adam:
Jesus.
Shay:
Oh hey.
Here comes Captain Divorce.
Adam:
Go fuck yourself, Kavanaugh.
Heath:
Sir. With respect.
We need your tactical expertise.
How do you classify an AWOL SEAL who might be post-coital?
Adam:
I classify it as “not my problem.”
Colson:
That’s rich coming from a man who’s one skipped therapy session from texting his wife “u up?”
Adam:
…
Chris:
Do we send a search party or a condom care package?
Shay:
I say we wait.
Give it another hour.
If he doesn’t text back by 0900, we assume he’s either cuffed to a headboard or by law enforcement.
Colson:
If it’s the first one, he better hydrate.
If it’s the second, he better lawyer up.
Heath:
Honestly?
Proud of him.
Isaac:
Stop. I’m on my way to work.
Don’t ask.
Don’t follow up.
Don’t make it weird.
Adam:
Copy. Whatever this is… it’s not “hookup” behavior.
It’s emotional exposure.
Shay:
OH MY GOD
ADAM IS INVESTED
I REPEAT
ADAM HAS A HEART
Heath:
Sir
Blink twice if Lila texted you back
Adam:
Blocked.
Isaac:
Nothing happened. Fucking relax, nerds.
Colson:
Bullshit.
Someone go check Rosie’s Instagram stories.
See if there’s blood, wine, or post-sex pancakes.
Adam:
Someone should warn her about him.
Isaac:
I’m still here.
Colson:
She knows.
Isaac growled and then he threw the phone on the passenger seat, got out, slammed the door, and walked inside.
Like nothing happened.
Like he hadn’t left part of himself in a bed he wasn’t sure he was allowed to return to.