Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
Rose
When Alex returns from the bedroom, I can tell there is something on his mind.
It’s in the way he avoids looking at me and the furrow permanently etched into his brow.
I busy myself wiping down the counter. It gives my hands something to do until he’s ready to sit.
He pulls out a chair at the island. I set the pot on the stove before reaching for a plate, but I only see one.
I blink and check the cabinet again, then open another one.
Still nothing. A glass. A set of coffee mugs.
But only one plate. I frown at it, like maybe another one might magically appear. It doesn’t.
“Well,” I mutter.
Alex leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with mild amusement, and definitely not sitting.
“You own exactly one plate,” I say.
His mouth tilts into a crooked smile. “Technically, that’s all I needed.”
I shake my head and pull the drawer open beside me. Two forks. “At least you have those,” I say. I scoop the spaghetti onto the single plate and place it between us on the island. Alex pulls out the stool beside him for me before settling onto his own.
“Shared plate,” I say gruffly. “Don’t get territorial.” I plop my elbows out to create some distance, but the feel of him makes me move them away just as quickly.
He chuckles, muttering something under his breath as he picks up one of the forks.
For a moment, we simply stare at the plate before digging in.
It's strangely easy. Our forks weave around each other in an unspoken rhythm, occasionally brushing when we reach for the same bite.
The scrape of his fork fades until all I notice is the slow, even rhythm of his breathing.
Somehow, it makes the silence between us feel less empty.
It should feel awkward, sharing a meal from the same plate with a man I barely know.
Instead, it feels...natural. Alex eats like he's starving, and despite myself, I keep stealing amused glances in his direction.
“You’re inhaling it,” I say jokingly.
“You made it,” he replies, slurping up a stray noodle before licking his lips and glancing at me, like that is his sole reason for his hunger.
“That doesn’t mean you have to annihilate it.”
He grins. “You’re watching me.”
I huff. “I’m not watching you.”
His eyes sparkle with mischief. “You are.”
I roll my eyes and take another bite. I twirl my fork again, and I do it with a little more force than necessary.
He’s wrong for calling me out. But he isn’t wrong that I was watching him.
And apparently, I can’t stop either. When I twirl more spaghetti onto my fork, the noodles pull from the pile, and suddenly, they’re attached to his. The strand is still hanging between us.
Alex tilts his head slightly. “You could let go.”
“Why don’t you?” I shoot back before I can stop myself.
A slow smile spreads across his face. “You first.”
I sigh, playing into this ridiculous game, and lean forward to bite my side of the noodle. At the same moment, Alex leans forward too. For a second, we both hesitate, but neither of us pulls back. The noodles shorten between us.
My breath catches. Closer. The strand disappears between our lips, and suddenly there’s no pasta left between us at all. My mouth brushes his. It’s barely a touch. Soft. Warm. The instant our lips meet, every nerve ending comes alive.
Time stops. I freeze.
Alex doesn’t move either. His breath mingles with mine, warm against my skin, lips flush against my own.
Everything else fades until we’re just there, suspended in this moment.
I'm close enough to see the amber light from above reflected in his dark eyes, softening their usual intensity.
His pupils are blown wide, his gaze locked on mine with a heat that makes my pulse stumble.
The way he searches my face makes it seem like he's weighing a decision before he slowly leans back.
The air between us feels different now, colder.
He clears his throat, picking up his fork again, as if nothing happened.
“That,” he says calmly, “was definitely your fault.”
My face burns. “My fault?” I choke out.
“You leaned in first.” He’s enjoying this way too much.
“You told me to!” I argue.
His mouth curves slightly as he twirls another bite of pasta. “Still was your move.”
I stare at him, completely flustered. And the worst part?
He doesn’t even look fazed. Meanwhile, my heart pounds so hard it feels determined to escape my chest altogether, humiliating me in front of him.
I grab my fork again just to give my hand something to do.
But when I glance at him, he’s smiling. Not teasing or smug, but effortless and so relaxing that it makes my stomach flip.
And suddenly, sharing a plate of spaghetti feels like the most dangerous decision I’ve made all day.
Alex grabs the plate and rinses it in the sink while I drop the pans and forks into the sudsy water. “I’ll take care of this,” I say.
He glances back at me, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
“Yeah?” he says, although he doesn’t step away.
“You cooked. It’s only fair that I clean up.
” He smiles. Heat floods my face as the memory of his mouth against mine flashes through my mind.
Without thinking, I brush my fingers over my lips, as though I can still feel the ghost of his kiss.
Alex notices immediately, and his gaze follows the movement. My breath catches, and I tilt my head away, suddenly very aware of him.
“Why don’t you shower?” I say, forcing my voice to sound casual. “I might head to bed soon. I have to be up early for clinicals. I can finish up here.”
He frowns.
“What?” I ask.
There's something conflicted in his expression. He hesitates, clearly debating whether to say what's on his mind.
“What is it?” I press.
“Are you going to be okay seeing that guy again?” He doesn’t say Maxwell’s name. He doesn’t need to.
I sigh softly. “Yeah,” I say. “He’s in my class. I’m bound to run into him. We have clinicals together.” I pause, biting my lip as I look away. “All of us,” I continue.
Alex nods slowly, thinking this through. “Well, if you need—”
“I’ll be fine,” I cut in gently. “But thank you for the offer.”
He studies me for another moment before nodding again. “You have my number, Rose.”
I smile. “Thank you.” I turn back toward the sink, dismissing the conversation before it can wander into a heavier topic.
Seeing Maxwell tomorrow is inevitable. Judging by the endless missed calls and messages, I already know it won't be pleasant.
They have ranged from sweet to crying to yelling in various stages of rapidly changing emotions.
Behind me, I hear Alex move away. A moment later, the bedroom door closes.
My shoulders finally relax. The whole evening feels like too much.
The brush of his knees against mine. The warmth of his breath when we leaned toward each other.
The way his eyes looked at me was like he could swallow me whole. My body still aches and craves it.
A few minutes later, I hear the shower start. My imagination betrays me immediately. I picture him beneath the spray, water running over those broad shoulders, over the sharp lines of his chest—
Placing everything into the drying rack, I wipe the counter twice, just to keep busy while I attempt to keep myself in line.
He's dangerous for me, I know that. Still, I can't bring myself to retreat to the bedroom while he's in the shower.
I reach for my phone to distract myself. Two percent battery.
“Great,” I mutter under my breath. My charger is in the bedroom.
I glance down the short hallway that leads to the only bedroom.
The shower is still running, the sound of water rushing against the tile.
Quick trip. In and out. No problem. Two seconds, I convince myself, and push the door open without a sound, slipping inside before easing the door mostly shut behind me.
I cross the carpet toward the bed in silent, socked footsteps.
Just as I bend to unplug the charger from behind the headboard, the shower shuts off.
I freeze, then spring into action, grabbing the charger and turning around just as the bathroom door opens and Alex steps out.
Too late. Steam follows him into the room, curling through the air.
He abruptly stops when he sees me. Shock briefly registers on his face.
I clutch the charger to my chest as it could protect me.
He’s wrapped in a white towel, hung shockingly low around his hips, and another, a smaller one, is draped across his shoulders.
Dark hair clings to his forehead as water drips slowly down the strong lines of his neck and chest. My eyes betray me.
They drop ever so slowly to the towel, which dips just enough to reveal the sharp V of muscle beneath it.
Water traces the path, knowing exactly where to go, and my mind chases it with wicked abandon.
Heat spreads through my body, slow and dangerous, until every nerve feels lit from within. The sensation gathers low in my stomach, sharp enough to steal my breath. When I finally drag my gaze back up, his jaw is tight. And the way he’s looking at me—
It’s as though he’s barely holding himself in check.
My breath stutters. I try to speak, but nothing comes out.
His hand tightens around the towel as he takes a step toward me.
I don't move. I don't think I could if I wanted to; my feet feel like cinder blocks, cemented to the floor.
He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
For one impossible second, I think he's going to kiss me.
Still, I don't move, even though every rational part of me knows I should leave.
But then he moves past me. His wet shoulder brushing mine, and sending a shiver straight down my spine.
I squeeze my eyes shut. He grabs a shirt and pulls it over his head.
The towel drops. I keep my gaze locked firmly on his face.
I will not look down. I will not look down.
I repeat this over and over, willing my body to comply.
He steps into a pair of grey sweats. Holy sweet baby Jesus.
He begins drying his hair with the towel around his shoulders before hanging it over the door. Then he walks toward the hallway.
At the doorway, he pauses. “Sweet dreams, Rose.” His voice is low. Rough. Then he vanishes down the hall.
I stand there alone in the bedroom, still clutching the charger, replaying these moments in my mind. And realizing just how dangerously close I am to losing whatever control I thought I had. Because if tonight proved anything, it’s that Alex might be the one thing I can’t walk away from.