Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
Rose
He asked last night if I needed a ride anywhere.
I told him no. The truth was that I did, but the thought of relying on anyone makes my skin crawl.
I hadn’t needed anyone in a long time. I learned at too young an age that dependence always comes with strings attached, and I swore that I would never let myself become ensnarled in anyone’s trap again.
When morning finally comes, dragging me awake, the silence that surrounds me is all wrong.
He’s gone. My heart plummets before I can stop it.
I don't know how I know, but I feel his loss immediately—a cold, hollow ache blooms beneath my ribs before I can force it back into its thorny cage. The conflicting emotion he stirs in me is a tempestuous storm. It’s want and fear, hunger and resentment, all snarling for dominance, and there’s no winner.
Only the dreadful feeling that something is dangling in front of me, forever just beyond my reach.
Reluctantly, I pull myself from the comfort of his sheets and step into the living area.
I find it empty, but not untouched. His throw is neatly folded with a pillow on top.
Early light streams through the curtains, clearing away the shadows that still cling to the corners as if they’re mourning his absence, too.
Frowning, I pad on bare feet into the kitchen to where his mug sits abandoned in the sink, a ghost of steam still lingering on the half-empty cup.
And then his scent. I tilt my head back to the smell of cinnamon and clove.
It’s a combination of heat and spice, and something deeper.
No. Something older. Ancient and primal.
It coils around my senses, seeping in through my nostrils and filling my lungs as I breathe in deeply.
It’s intoxicating and unforgettable, surrounding me in an embrace I'd spent my whole life searching for.
It smells like the home I didn't have growing up.
Then my attention is drawn to something lying on the table. There’s a note. A key resting on top of it, and his phone number is written in a messy script along with: In case you need anything.
It says nothing else. Not when he will be back or anything else to tell me where he left off at such an early hour, but I suppose he doesn’t owe me an explanation.
For some reason, it bothers me, but I don’t dwell on it.
I hesitate, then pick it up and add the number to my contacts before I can overthink it.
Thankfully, Chelsea called soon after, no doubt having heard about last night thirdhand.
I’ve already missed about ten calls from Maxwell and a rambling, drunken voice message from Lucinda.
I suppose it’s her attempt at a slurred and tear-soaked apology.
I don’t blame her solely for what happened, as Maxwell also shares some of the blame.
But honestly? I can’t bring myself to care anymore.
I should’ve stayed friends with him. I only dated him because he felt like the safer choice, and look how that turned out.
My friend group is splintered. Maxwell is out of the picture, and the man I’ve spent months trying to guard my heart against is now the one I’m living with.
Groaning, I press my palms into my eyes and let the weight of it all sink in.
“What a fucking mess, Rose,” I voice out loud, staring up at the ceiling, shaking my head trying to talk myself out of this spiral.
Alex and I are definitely not together, yet I slept in his bed, albeit without him.
I was all curled up into his ghostly presence, and dare I say that it was the best sleep I’ve had in longer than I care to admit.
Even acknowledging that makes me question my own sanity.
Despite the intensity he wears like a second skin and the way he watches me with a concern that should make me feel suffocated, I don’t fear him. I fear what he represents.
I keep catching myself thinking about him, and the overwhelming focus he gives to anything that is in his line of sight, especially when it comes to me.
I seem to be the center of it more often than not.
It should terrify me more. Maybe it does.
However, the contradiction is unavoidable, because his presence feels both comforting and dangerous.
A warmth pressed against the cold edges of everything else in my life.
I don’t know why, but something about him stills the chaos constantly battering inside my chest. It’s a feeling that shouldn’t make sense, yet somehow, it reaches places in me nothing else ever has.
Sighing, annoyed with myself, I try to get out of my head, already exhausted by the direction of my thoughts. A text flashes across my screen with an alert from the towing company.
The car will be here in half an hour.
Perfect. Just enough time to pull myself together. I shower and change into something comfortable. My hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, and my makeup is kept minimal. Only my lips, painted in the deep red stain I can’t seem to give up, breaking the otherwise simple look.
When I step out of the bedroom, the house is still, but not in the way I'm used to.
Not like the old house, where floorboards groaned in protest and windows let in drafts of cold air.
This place is different. It's warm, orderly, and cared for in a way that reminds me how unfamiliar this kind of comfort still feels.
Not having to wear thick socks or layer on extra clothes at home is something I'm still getting used to.
I walk over to the Breville on the counter and huff out a short laugh.
The coffee maker probably costs more than my entire monthly grocery bill.
I sometimes forget that he comes from a family where luxury is the norm, even if they don’t act like it.
Not like Maxwell does. The machine is exactly the kind of thing I would’ve bought if I ever let myself spend money on anything indulgent.
I grab a mug from the cabinet. It’s a black one with a raven curling across the side, setting it on the counter.
As I slide it out of the way, something catches my eye.
Letters. The handwriting on the front looks like nonsense at first glance, scribbled in all caps with oddly spaced hyphens.
F-CAW-F. My breath stutters. I lift a hand to my mouth, trying to smother the sound threatening to escape me.
“Oh, God.” I let out a short laugh. The sound is strange on my lips, belonging to someone lighter and less complicated by baggage.
I decide to keep the note and move on to the coffee before my thoughts unravel again.
The machine is far easier than it looks.
It’s a touch screen, all sleek and expensive as hell.
When I select a latte, it prompts me to choose everything: milk type, froth density, and temperature.
I scroll through the options until my drink is finally ready to brew.
When the machine whirs to life, I nearly salivate.
The smell alone is sinful. The espresso pours in a slow, rich stream, topped with thick, velvety milk. It almost looks too perfect to drink.
When it finishes, I clean up the counter, rinsing the attachments and wiping it down with a microfiber cloth resting beside it. The simple motions calm me. Warm water, soft cloth, and the ordinary sounds of a home, that shouldn’t feel this straightforward.
Another alert flashes across my phone.
The car is here.
I grab my things and step outside to see a tow truck easing my vehicle onto an open stretch of pavement. The morning is unnervingly quiet for a Sunday, the kind of stillness that makes the world feel suspended inside a snow globe, tiny flecks drifting lazily through the pale morning light.
“Hey,” I call out as I approach the man unloading my car from the flatbed. He gives a quick wave, but keeps working, maneuvering the car into the space with precision. Metal clangs against metal as he unhooks the straps, then he raises the flat bed back in place before walking toward me.
“Are you the owner?” he asks.
I nod and extend my hand. “Hi. Rose Bennett. Thank you so much.” He returns the handshake and places my key into my palm. The same one I left in the ignition when my car died. The metal is cold, biting against my skin, chilled from the crisp morning air, as I curl my fingers around it.
“It’s no problem. We changed out the battery, and it started right up,” he says, handing me the invoice.
I take it and slide my card into the reader on his mobile device.
When the receipt prints, he passes it to me, and I thank him before heading toward my car.
The key is still cold in my hand as I unlock the door.
I slip inside, exhale, and decide on a plan.
I’ll head to campus for a bit, study, and maybe pick up a few things from the grocery store.
“Maybe I’ll make Alex dinner as a thank you,” I think aloud.
The thought surprises me, but it doesn’t feel wrong.
After everything he’s done for me, it only seems fair.
I press my tongue against the inside of my cheek, contemplating my reasoning for wanting to do this, wondering just how flawed it is.
And maybe over dinner, we can finally talk about how long I’ll be intruding on his space.
His townhouse. His bedroom. I gulp thinking about him with someone else in that space—his life. For now, though, it’s a start.
By the time I finally leave campus, exhaustion has burrowed deep into my bones.
As I pull into the café, I’m tired and feeling worn down after studying alone for a couple of hours.
I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone from my friend group today.
We’ll have to address what happened eventually, but it’s the betrayal that twists the knife deep in my back.
If they had told me they were thinking about or were hooking up, I would’ve stepped aside without hesitation.
But the lies and the secrecy sent me spiraling.
I never once cheated on him, especially not since he was the one who pushed for the relationship in the first place.
And Lucinda…that hurts the most. She was supposed to be my friend.
I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that she would do something like that.
The only blessing is not having to help Maxwell with his coursework today.
It freed up so much time, and I got twice as much studying done without having to re-explain the easy concepts he struggles with.
Pushing open the café door, the rich scent of roasted coffee beans overwhelms my senses, wrapping me in warmth.
It isn’t too crowded for a Sunday afternoon, just quiet enough that the low hum of the espresso machines fills the space with gentle white noise beneath the soft indie rock drifting from the speakers.
Death Cab for Cutie’s acoustic ballad, “I Will Follow You Into the Dark,” plays throughout the room.
A solid band with a great song is exactly what I need right now.
I order a chai latte and take a seat with my back to the window, letting my head fall against the cushion. For a moment, I let myself breathe, really breathe for the first time today. Exhaling the tension I’ve been harboring in every part of my body.
The bell over the café door chimes, but I don't look up. A few people come and go while I wait for my order. Then I hear his unmistakable voice, sending a shiver racing down my arms. I sit a little straighter just as the cashier calls out, "Mobile order for Alexander!"
My heart stutters. Against my better judgment, I lift my gaze.
His eyes find mine immediately, as though he'd already been looking for me.
For a moment, everything else falls away.
The chatter of conversation, the hiss of steaming milk, and the clatter of ceramic dishes fade beneath the weight of his gaze.
He doesn't smile, but something in his expression softens when he sees me.
His shoulders fill out the black hoodie stretched across his frame, his dark hair still slightly damp, as though he showered and rushed out the door without bothering to dry it.
A faint shadow of scruff dusts his jaw, making him look unfairly good for a sleepy Sunday afternoon coffee run.
He doesn't look away. And neither do I.
The café carries on around us, oblivious to the moment stretching between us. My pulse stumbles, leaving me torn between disappearing beneath the table and waving him over. Before I can decide, he's already walking toward me.
“Rose?” he says softly, already stepping toward me.
My pulse spikes. Tachycardia, just a wicked rapid heartbeat.
It’s clinical and totally explainable. Except it doesn’t feel clinical at all.
Of all the places he could’ve been today, why here?
Of all the cafés in this college town, why mine?
And why now? What are the chances? A cold realization takes hold that this might not be chance at all.