Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Rose
Ican’t believe he invaded my sanctuary. And his cockiness holds no bounds.
The animals have always been my safe place.
It’s the one place where I can exist without prying eyes or unspoken judgment.
Here, love is simple. It’s wordless. Given without conditions or expectations.
Every one of them is here because they trusted the wrong person.
Someone who was supposed to love, protect, and care for them. Someone who hurt them instead.
In that way, they are painfully familiar to me.
They were let down, abandoned, and left without anyone to love them back.
I learned my lesson, though. I don’t expect anything anymore, but they still do.
They still watch the door when the bell above chimes, announcing a new visitor.
They lean toward every footstep that approaches their steel confinements.
Worst of all, they still hope for something that may never come, or worse, find the same kind of love that broke them in the first place.
And to make matters worse, my dog, Watson, adores him.
The beagle who snaps at unfamiliar hands, who bares his teeth at new handlers, who elicits a low growl whenever the vet so much as approaches, likes him.
He leans into him, as if he’s always belonged there.
As if some part of him recognized Alex before I ever did.
The thing I’ve come to learn while working at the shelter is that animals know.
Not in the human way, filtered through logic, charm, or carefully chosen words.
They see through people in that instinctive way that cuts through all the bullshit.
They sense the unrest in a person’s soul, the intentions buried beneath their smiles, even when darkness lurks behind carefully curated eyes.
They don’t care about appearance or wealth or any of society’s polished masks.
They respond to who someone really is. And Watson—he has never reacted to anyone the way he reacts to Alex.
Watson and I are stitched together by hurt and healing and our shared silence.
But with Alex, it is different. It’s as if Watson chose him to be a part of our circle that only held the two of us.
Well, up until now. As if he can see something I can’t.
Something threaded between Alex and me. And that unsettles me more than I want to admit.
I would take Watson home in a heartbeat if I could, but my living situation doesn’t allow pets, and my lease makes that painfully clear.
So instead, I spend whatever time I can with him.
Sometimes, I take him out for short drives, just to watch his oversized ears flap in the wind and his nose twitch at every passing scent.
He travels so well, settling beside me in my car, knowing he’s safe.
Selfishly, I wish I could take him for good.
Although nothing in my life feels settled anymore, my current living situation is unraveling, thread by thread.
The distance between me and Maxwell stretches wider with each passing day that neither of us bothers to acknowledge.
We barely touch anymore, barely speak unless it’s in our group’s study session, or when necessity or simple politeness requires it.
Even intimacy feels rehearsed, mechanical, performing from a memory of when we first met.
And lately, I can’t shake the certainty that whatever existed between us has already ended.
I just haven’t said the words out loud yet.
I should try to be a better girlfriend. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
Maybe Maxwell is right. Maybe it is my “frigid personality,” as he so often calls it.
I know that there’s a shard of truth buried somewhere in the accusation, but that doesn’t make it cut any less.
So when Callie walks over to tell me I can leave early—that Denver, her boyfriend, is coming to help her close—relief washes through me.
A slow exhale slips past my lips, one I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding.
But that moment that breath escapes, an awareness crawls over my skin, a subtle prickle that makes the back of my neck stiffen and sends every nerve ending onto high alert.
I know the feeling. Being watched. I glance toward the breakroom and find him there, his gaze locked on me with an intensity that steals the air from my lungs.
He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t pretend he wasn’t staring.
His expression is unreadable, but something in it pulls at me, like two skeletons finding one another again beneath the same patch of earth.
And all I can think is…how long has he been looking at me?
Alex is there, leaning back in his chair with a mug cradled loosely in his hand. “Black coffee,” I mutter under my breath with a soft scoff. Of course, he drinks it that way—dark, bitter, and unforgiving. “Just like his soul.”
I grip the strap of my bag tighter, and without sparing him a glance, make my escape as soon as possible. I can’t risk walking out with him.
“See ya,” I throw out over my shoulder, letting it scatter uselessly into the air behind me.
My bag swings as I push through the door and step into the cold.
The biting air hits my lungs. Although it’s sharp and piercing, it helps me just enough to keep my legs moving forward toward my car instead of giving in to the magnetic pull tugging me backward.
I reach for the driver's-side handle, expecting the familiar resistance of locked doors.
Instead, it opens. I freeze, my hand still wrapped around the handle because I know I locked it.
A chill skates down my spine, colder than the winter air.
I glance around the parking lot to find it empty.
Silent. Worst of all, nothing looks out of place.
Don't be ridiculous. I let out a nervous laugh, but it dies as quickly as it came.
Swallowing past the unease crawling up my throat, I slide inside in one swift motion, dropping my bag onto the passenger seat before swinging the door shut with more force than necessary.
I press the start button. The engine doesn't even try to turn over.
"No. No. No." The words slip out in a strained whisper as dread curls in my stomach. I drop my forehead against the steering wheel, my fingers tightening around the leather until my knuckles turn white. Why does the universe always choose the worst possible moment? Or worse—why doesn’t this feel like chance at all?
A soft knock against my window makes me groan.
I already know who it is before I even turn my head, so I stay where I am for another second.
When I finally look over, a faint frown pulls at his handsome face.
Concern softens his usual brooding expression.
Instead of reassuring me, it only makes something tighten inside my chest.
I push the door open and step out. The cold rushes in until his large frame fills the space between us.
I have to tilt my head back slightly to meet his gaze.
He's close. Too close. Close enough that the warmth radiating from him cuts through the bitter air, making the space between us feel impossibly small.
He glances from me, then to the dead dashboard, and back again. “What’s wrong with your car?” he asks.
I shrug helplessly. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be stranded out here.”
Sighing, I press my fingertips to my temples, rubbing slow circles at the corner of my forehead. My eyes squeeze shut as I try to think. God. Should I call Maxwell?
I pause, unsure. Despite our imploding relationship, he has always been a constant presence in medical school, my friend long before he was anything more.
It’s only recently that things have turned awkward, his grades slipping, and his drinking increasing with his frequent outings.
We all have our demons we keep locked up.
Maybe Maxwell has his own secrets he keeps buried.
He might not even be home. He isn’t expecting me for another two hours.
That’s when my shift usually ends. And lately, even when he is home, it doesn’t feel like I’m coming back to one.
I exhale slowly, keeping the frustration at bay, the sound swallowed by the cold air.
Not wanting to take it out on Alex, I’m painfully aware that he’s standing there, watching and waiting.
I can’t shake the feeling that he sees every crack I’ve worked so hard to hide.
“Seems maybe you need a new battery,” Alex murmurs, breaking the tension.
I tilt my head back, staring up at the dull grey sky, my eyelids dragging shut in a slow, hard blink before I look at him again.
I expect impatience or judgment at the very least—something cutting that I can push back at him with.
But there’s only concern in his expression.
It makes something in my chest tighten with a small, unwelcome ache.
I swallow down the instinct to snap at him, to hide behind sarcasm.
He’s only trying to help. He even looks worried.
And when I meet his gaze, I remind myself that his father means the world to me, that this should make accepting his help easier. It doesn’t.
“Yeah,” I finally admit. “It hasn’t been holding a charge.
I had to jump it this morning with the portable battery pack I keep at home.
” The words come out clipped and defensive as I brace for the criticism I'm sure is coming. I wait for him to tell me I should’ve replaced it already, or that I shouldn’t have let it get this bad.
But he doesn’t do that either. He just nods once, unbothered, and then gestures toward his car.
“I’m heading out,” he says. “I can drive you to get a battery, bring it back, and even install it for you if you want.” The offer is kind. Too kind. Because kindness always comes with strings attached, and I don’t like owing anyone anything. So I shake my head.
“No, that’s okay. I just want to get home.
I can have it towed there. I’ve got free towing with my policy, and battery replacement, too.
They’ll come to my place, test it, and install one if that’s the problem,” I rush out the words, feeling I need to explain that I have it all covered, so he doesn’t insist on helping me more than I’m comfortable with.
He hesitates, hand sliding to the back of his neck as he glances around the nearly empty lot, the only other car belonging to my boss. His jaw works once before he speaks.
“Can I at least give you a lift?” he asks, the offer sounding unsure, as if he’s bracing himself for me to say no.
I’m ready to refuse. Ready to tell him no, that I don’t want him knowing where I live, that this is all too much, too close. The words rise in my throat, only to stall there, suspended on my next breath.
And instead, I hear myself say, “Sure. Why not?”