Chapter 2 Gavin
TWO
GAVIN
I shouldn’t be here.
That was the first thought that hit me as we walked upstairs. The second was that I’d follow her anywhere.
Not because I couldn’t say no. But because I didn’t want to.
Rosie—no, Rose—looked like she was barely hanging on.
Her golden hair was dripping at the ends, curling against her cheeks and the hollow of her throat.
The dress she threw on was plastered to her skin like a second layer until it flowed out at the hips.
Her eyes—normally so bright—were red and swollen from crying.
And even with all of that—hell, because of all that—she looked beautiful. Too beautiful for her own good.
I take a moment to wonder when I started seeing her in such a different light.
She moved across the tiny kitchen with slow, cautious steps, barefoot and wrapped in a frayed throw blanket like it was the only thing holding her together.
Her toes curled slightly on the worn tile floor, her shoulders hunched like she was still trying to disappear.
She looked like something fragile and ancient—some tragic little nymph—who didn’t even realize she was dangerous.
I’ve known her since she was young. Watched her grow up next to my daughter. Watched her parents beam at her over long holiday dinners while she blushed and tried to help clear the table. She was smart. Kind. Prim in a way that was rare now—always polite, always sweet.
And now?
Now I was in her apartment. In her space. Making her hot chocolate, in what I hoped was her favorite mug, trying not to lose my mind over how intimate it all felt.
The kitchen was small and a little chaotic—open shelves crammed with mismatched dishes, herbs hanging to dry near the window, cookbooks stacked sideways on the counter. Lived-in. Hers. I found the cocoa mix in a clearly-labeled jar and had the kettle going before I even realized I’d moved.
She sat down at the little kitchen table, blanket pulled tight around her shoulders, and watched me with those wide, tired eyes. I handed her the mug gently, and when her fingers brushed mine, the contact hit like a live wire. Her skin was cold. Still trembling.
“Thank you,” she said softly, curling her hands around the cup for warmth.
“Sure you are warm enough? You’re still shivering,” I asked, because it was safer than saying any of the things in my head.
She shook her head. “I’m okay now. I think it’s just the adrenaline from panicking.”
“Panicking is allowed and valid.”
She nodded, looking down into the mug like it might offer her answers.
I wanted to say more, but instead, I turned back around and opened her fridge.
I found a half-loaf of sourdough, a block of sharp cheddar, and butter in the door.
She probably hadn’t eaten all day—that much was clear from how she looked like she was running on fumes and sheer instinct.
I set to work making the grilled cheese I’d promised her earlier, the motions grounding me. Buttered bread. Hot pan. The slow hiss as the bread hit the surface. The scent of crisping crust and melting cheese filled the air.
She moved from the table to the couch in the living room—just a few steps away in this cozy apartment—and nestled into the corner, curling her legs under her, the blanket slipping down her shoulder a little.
I tried not to stare at the pale skin it revealed.
Tried—and failed—not to imagine what she’d look like without the blanket. Or the dress. Or anything at all.
Jesus Christ, Gavin. Pull it together.
I plated the sandwich, cut it diagonally—because that is the correct way—and brought it to her along with a napkin. She took it with a small, grateful smile that nearly did me in.
I sat down on the opposite end of the couch. It didn’t help. The room was too small. She was too close. Her presence filled up the space in ways I couldn’t explain.
“I’m sorry I lost it like that,” she said, voice quieter now. “I hate crying in front of people.”
“You don’t have to apologize for being human.”
Her smile was crooked. Tired. “Do you always know what to say?”
“No,” I said honestly. “But with you? I want to try.”
That made her go still. Her eyes lifted to mine, wide and dark and filled with something I wasn’t sure she understood yet.
I shouldn’t have said that. I knew better. She was young. Sweet. Fragile, even if she’d never admit it. And I was—hell, I was fifty-two. A widower. A father. And her dad’s best damn friend.
But something about her pulled at parts of me I thought had long since gone quiet. Parts that had died with Vanessa. Parts I hadn’t let anyone near in years. Something about Rose made those parts stir again—and that scared the hell out of me.
“You’ve always called me Rosie,” she said, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. Her lips parted slightly, and a flush crawled up her throat. She looked innocent in that moment, vulnerable and raw. “Tell me again why you called me Rose earlier.”
I shrugged. “That was before I saw you fall apart and still try to hold it all together. That was before I realized you’re not a girl anymore.
” I looked at her, and for a second, I let it all show.
The ache. The wanting. The guilt I carried like a second skin.
“Rosie is soft and sweet and doesn’t scare anyone.
But Rose …” I leaned forward slightly, my voice low.
“Rose has thorns. Rose can bleed and still bloom.”
She sucked in a breath, and for a moment, time hung suspended between us. Like the air was weighted. Like if I moved, something irreversible would happen.
I wanted to kiss her. God help me, I almost did.
Instead, I stood up. Too fast. My hands ran through my hair, desperate for something to hold onto that wasn’t her.
“I should go,” I said, throat tight. “You should rest. I’ll come back tomorrow and check the damage downstairs. Bring some fans and dehumidifiers.”
She nodded slowly, watching me like she could feel everything I wasn’t saying. But it was her voice—soft and tentative—that stopped me at the door.
“Gavin?”
I turned, heart thudding.
“Thank you. For … being here with me.”
I nodded, unable to trust myself to say anything without it coming out wrong. Without it coming out honest.
Because what I wanted to say was this:
You have no idea what you’re doing to me, Rose. And I don’t know how much longer I can pretend my feelings for you haven’t changed.