Chapter 17 #2
I nod slowly, though uncertainty still remains.
It feels possible, sure. More than possible, given everything that has happened and the scene he made on campus today.
The messages and the calls all paint a picture I can’t easily dismiss.
Still, there’s a part of me that hesitates assuming it’s him, and that questions whether he would really go this far.
My stomach twists. Alex’s body goes rigid beside me; there’s no confusion or hesitation on his part.
He radiates a controlled fury that fills the space between us in a protective way, making me worry for an entirely different reason.
If he is angry enough to do this, then what’s to say Maxwell won’t escalate something further?
I can’t blame him. I’m furious, too. Not just the violation, but what it cost me.
It’s my car. My only mode of transportation.
To me, it’s not just metal and glass. It’s everything I’ve managed to hold together on my own.
The first purchase I made for myself. It shows every dollar stretched thin, every sacrifice I made just to keep moving forward to reach my goal.
I don’t have the luxury of replacing things easily, and certainly not without knowing that something else has to give.
And now it’s been reduced to this, torn through like it doesn’t matter.
“Get in my car,” he says, his words leaving no room for argument.
“Alex,” I begin, the protest forming out of instinct more than conviction.
“Now, Rose.”
There’s something in his tone that stops every instinct to argue.
It's commanding, making resistance feel pointless. I’ve always had to take on these challenges and hardships.
It feels nice to let someone else share the burden and to be cared for, though I flinch at the command.
I won’t argue again. His eyes are cold, and his expression appears controlled, but the tension radiating from him tells me his repressed fury is just waiting for the slightest thing to break through.
Alex opens the passenger door for me with precise, deliberate movements.
Before I step in, I take one last look at my car.
It doesn’t matter because the door is closed and nothing looks out of order from here.
The word is still there when I close my eyes.
It’s etched into my mind with the same jaded force it was used to carve into the door.
It’s impossible to forget, and I can’t ignore this sign.
That neon flashing sign warning that this may get worse.
When police arrive, we give them a careful account of what happened, sticking to the facts. Maxwell’s name still at the edge of the conversation, but without proof, it remains nothing more than suspicion, and there’s nothing concrete we can give them.
“Do you know anyone who would do this?” the officer asks, looking at me like I might be able to solve this vandalism crime for him.
It’s as if he can read my mind. The glance I give Alex lets him know that I don’t want to name anyone.
His jaw tics in frustration, but he keeps his mouth shut, lips held tight in a thin line.
“No,” I answer, looking at Alex, and hoping he won’t say a word. He doesn’t, but it’s clear he doesn't like my stance. The officer watches the exchange, placing his notepad in his pocket. I already know this will yield no results, and he’s basically given up.
“Well, if you think of anything else that could be helpful,” he hands me a card with his number on it, “please reach out. I’m sorry this happened to you.” He nods, walks back to his car, and leaves.
We secure what’s left of the car as best we can, the damage hidden but not undone, and Ezra offers to come back for it later, his tone even as his eyes remain sharp and watchful, looking out for any other threats we may have overlooked.
When we finally pull away, I keep my focus on the road, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary.
I insisted on driving us back to the townhouse, needing something I could control.
Alex didn’t argue, but the slight tightening of his jaw told me everything he didn’t say.
Darkness settles around us as the outside world slips past. Somewhere in the silence, Alex’s hand finds mine, and he gives it one soft squeeze before his fingers close around it with a firm pressure that tells me he’s there, and that I’m not alone in this.
But even then, with his hand in mine, the unease creeping in refuses to subside. It only grows with every passing mile.
Alex reaches for the radio, the haunting lyrics of Bad Omens, “Specter,” fill the car, and I shiver at the words.
Alex feels the tremor in my hand and must interpret it as me being cold.
He turns up the heat and puts the heated steering wheel on.
Little does he know that it’s the lyrics of this song that remind me that maybe I’ll never be able to give him what he needs.
Something about this doesn’t feel impulsive, but calculated in a way that burrows beneath my skin, leaving me raw and exposed in a way that I can’t explain.
It's as though something spectral reached in and disturbed more than the surface, undoing every fragile piece of peace I'd only just found.
By the time we pull into the townhouse, exhaustion has set in so deeply it feels physical, making my bones heavier than they should be with every movement.
The weight of the day remains, surrounding me in annoyance, hurt, anger, something dangerously close to comfort where Alex is concerned, and all of it blends until I can no longer separate one emotion from the other.
As we step inside, that weight intensifies, making me feel wobbly on my feet, my body suddenly too aware of how little energy I have left to hold myself together.
My gaze drifts toward the sofa, and the evidence of where Alex has been sleeping.
The realization comes quickly, landing its intended punch.
There’s only one bed. He’s been giving it up since I moved in, choosing discomfort without ever making it known, and now, with Ezra here, there’s nowhere left for him to go.
As if sensing the change in my thoughts, Ezra drops onto the couch without hesitation, stretching out and claiming it. His shoes are still on, completely at ease.
“Not on the couch, bro,” Alex says, his tone leaving no room for argument. He hits Ezra harder than expected.
“Fine.” Ezra pops up quickly. “I’m taking the bedroom then,” he says, rubbing his palms together with a grin that makes me want to laugh despite everything.
Alex doesn’t even hesitate. He grabs the back of Ezra’s hoodie and yanks him back, spinning him around with ease. “Ha. Ha. You’re hilarious.”
Ezra groans, but there’s no real fight in it. He just enjoys pushing his buttons.
“I’ll grab you some sheets,” Alex adds, already moving past him.
I follow him into the bedroom, the one I’ve been sleeping in, closing the door softly behind us as he moves toward the closet.
There’s a building tension in the air, bordering on awkward now that we are left alone.
He pulls out a set of bedding and turns back toward me, and the look on his face tells me he’s already made up his mind.
He stops in front of me, sheets in hand.
“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take the floor, okay?”
I look up at him, catching the faint curve of a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and something in my chest tightens at the sight of it.
He’s so quick to give up. Too quick. I want to say something.
To argue, or try to fix it. He must see it anyway, the hesitation or internal conflict, because his expression softens, and he leans in, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to my lips.
When he pulls back, it’s only just enough that his breath still brushes mine, his lips only a breath away from mine.
“Don’t overthink it,” he murmurs. Then he’s gone.
Just like that, and I’m left missing him, staring at the space he just filled, wondering how I'm supposed to sleep knowing he’s lying on the floor, uncomfortable, when every part of me is already too aware of him.