Chapter 11-Honor
Whoever decided that going out to dinner was a safe, neutral first date has never taken Rosalind Carrera out for sushi.
Because nothing about this is neutral.
We’re seated in a cozy corner booth, tucked away in a softly lit, upscale sushi place Hope insisted was “perfect for something low-key.”
There are delicate paper lanterns strung above us, casting a warm golden glow over the pale wooden walls.
The seats are cushiony and comfortable, and some calming instrumental music is playing in the background—something flute-heavy that’s supposed to ease you into relaxation.
I don’t notice any of it.
Not really.
Not like how I normally would.
And it’s all because she’s across from me.
Rosie, with her hair pulled back in a low twist, a few wavy strands framing her face in soft waves.
She’s wearing this simple outfit—navy blue top with little flowers on it and jeans—and it should be innocent, casual.
But there’s nothing casual about the way it fits her curves.
Nothing innocent about the way she’s gently lifting a piece of tuna sashimi with her chopsticks like it’s the most delicious thing in the world.
Every move she makes is like deliberate poetry. Is that a thing?
I mean to say, she’s focused on her meal.
Like she’s not just eating, but experiencing the food.
She hums softly under her breath as she chews—a sound that hits low in my gut—and closes her eyes for a split second as if she’s letting the flavor settle before opening them again.
Intentional or not, it is something to behold.
And it’s wrecking me.
Absolutely wrecking me.
I’m trying to be nonchalant. Relaxed. Charming.
Just a regular guy out on a date, enjoying good food and making polite conversation with a beautiful woman.
But instead, my pulse is pounding like I just ran a mile uphill.
My skin feels too tight.
I’m gripping my chopsticks like they’re my last tether to sanity, and there’s a piece of sashimi suspended in front of me—halfway to my mouth—because I forgot what I was doing the moment she licked a stray drop of soy sauce from her lip.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice soft and concerned.
She nods toward the chopsticks frozen in my hand. “You don’t like it?”
That voice.
Husky. Soft. Sexy. Dangerous.
Fuck. Me.
It’s like wind chimes and warmth and something familiar I can’t name.
She’s completely unaware of the storm she’s causing.
Of the chaos thundering through me every second she looks at me like this—curious, open, kind.
“No,” I say quickly, lowering the chopsticks and trying to remember how words work. “I mean—yeah. I do like it. A lot.”
Her mouth tips into a smile that nearly finishes me.
“Good,” she says. “You looked like you were about to interrogate the fish.”
I laugh, because what the hell else am I supposed to do?
I’m sitting in a place designed to soothe, with walls glowing like amber and the faint scent of jasmine in the air—and none of it is working.
Not when she’s across from me.
First dates aren’t supposed to feel this intense. And technically, this isn’t even our first time sharing a meal.
But tonight? Tonight feels different.
There’s a current under everything—every glance, every brush of her fingers as she reaches for her drink. Like we’re circling something neither of us wants to name yet.
Like this dinner is just the surface, and what’s beneath it could change everything.
It’s not casual.
It’s not safe.
It’s charged. Dangerous.
Because I don’t just want the conversation. Or the food. Or her smile, even though that alone might undo me.
I want her.
This connection, this quiet gravity pulling me toward her—I’ve never felt anything like it.
And it scares the hell out of me.
Because for the first time in a long time, I’m not just surviving. I’m hoping.
And I have no idea what to do with that.
I finally take the bite, forcing myself to chew, to swallow, to act like a functioning human being.
Rosalind does the same, eyes closing briefly as she hums in appreciation.
That sound hits me low and deep.
I have to cough, turning my head like the rice went down wrong.
She reaches for her water at the same time I do, our fingers brushing, and the contact sends a jolt straight through to my cock.
Goddamn. My jeans feel so fucking tight and I wonder if the zipper will leave a mark.
Christ, I want her. Badly.
And no matter what I told Hope—no matter how many rules I pretend I’m following—I know there’s no version of this where I walk away without touching her.
If Rosalind wants me, even a little, I’m done pretending I don’t want her back.
I don’t want to play cool.
I don’t want to act casual.
Because something inside me is already sure.
It’s not quiet, either.
It’s loud. Insistent.
A pressure in my chest that doesn’t feel like nerves or attraction—it feels older than that. Heavier. Like a certainty I didn’t earn but can’t ignore.
Mine.
The word isn’t a thought. It’s not even a voice exactly—more like a presence that presses against my awareness, repeating itself over and over.
Mine.
Mine.
MINE.
I stiffen, forcing myself to breathe through it, to stay grounded in the restaurant—the clink of dishes, the murmur of other conversations, the candle flickering between us.
This is so not fucking normal.
Sure, I’ve heard things before. At night. In the woods. Sounds that don’t belong. I told myself it was stress. Trauma.
Just my brain misfiring after years of living on edge.
But this? This feels different.
I glance at Rosalind, at the way she’s watching me now—careful, curious, like she senses something’s off but doesn’t know what.
I make myself smile. Reach for my drink.
Put space between us, even though every instinct I have is screaming to close it.
To lean in.
To touch her.
To tell her I’m not good at this, but I want to be—with her.
But I don’t.
Because I’m trying to keep my distance. Trying to keep it light.
I’m lying to myself.
Because the truth settles in my chest, heavy and undeniable. And that truth?
I don’t want to resist this. Or her.
Whatever’s wrong with me—whatever new, snarling voice keeps whispering that she’s mine—doesn’t want me to, either.
So instead, I focus on her face, her hands wrapped around her glass, and ask the safest thing I can think of.
“So, do you like working at Furry Smiles?”
Rosalind looks up at me, surprised for a second.
Then something softens in her.
“I do,” she says, her voice softening—gentle but steady. “It’s not glamorous, but it’s fulfilling.”
“How did you get into it?”
“Oh, um, I actually started there as a volunteer with my dad.”
“That so?” I ask, leaning in despite myself. “Does he still work with you?”
Her smile flickers, just a little. “No. He passed last year.”
“Fuck,” I mutter immediately. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Hey.” She shakes her head and pats my hand.
The contact is light, but it lingers for a while even after she pulls back.
“Don’t be sorry. I loved my father, and I don’t mind talking about him. He was good people.”
Something tight in my chest loosens.
“Of course he was,” I say quietly. “He made you.”
Her eyes go bright at that, like I’ve touched something tender.
“He taught me to look past the exterior,” she continues. “To give the ones who come in dirty and scrawny and a little bit mean a chance.”
She smiles faintly.
“That’s nice,” I murmur.
“Every animal we get has been rejected in some way. Broken. Scared. Labeled untrainable.”
She trails off, gaze dropping to the table, fingertips tracing the edge of her plate like she’s grounding herself.
And I realize—she’s not just talking about animals.
She’s talking about survival.
“So, what do you do with the ones you get?”
“I clean them up and I train them. Work with them until they find their purpose—something that makes them wanted again. And then I get to watch them go off and do something incredible for someone who needs them. It’s like...”
She shrugs a little, her smile bittersweet.
“It’s like proving the world wrong. Like saying, hey—this life still matters. We’re all salvageable. Even the ones nobody else believes in.”
My breath catches.
Something sharp and hot stabs at my chest.
I know she doesn’t mean me.
But damn if it doesn’t feel like she’s talking directly to me.
“You believe that?” I ask quietly. “That we’re all salvageable?”
She meets my gaze. “Yeah. I do.”
I want to kiss her.
I want to take her hand.
But instead, I make myself sit back. Nod.
And we finish our meal.
It’s fine.
At least, I think it is.
The conversation after is lighter. It flows easier than I expected, but underneath it, there’s this constant hum—like I’m holding something volatile in my chest and praying it doesn’t go off in public.
When the check comes, I’m almost relieved.
Because if I spend another five minutes staring at her lips, I will do something I can’t take back.
And I already feel too far gone.
Not because I want the night to end—but because I don’t trust myself to sit still much longer.
We slide back into her Jeep, the door thudding shut with a finality that makes my pulse spike.
It’s darker now. The sun’s already dipping low, streaking the sky in deep oranges and bruised purples.
The windows are rolled down, cool spring air rushing in, but the heated seats keep things comfortable—too comfortable. Too intimate.
I glance at her hands on the wheel. Steady. Confident. Purple dashboard lights reflecting off her skin.
“How about I show you my favorite place in all of Barvale?” she asks, flashing me that grin that keeps undoing me.
I nod immediately.
There is nothing—nothing—I don’t want to learn about this woman, as long as she’s willing to share it.
She turns off the main road and follows a narrow drive that looks like it hasn’t seen traffic in years.
We park at the end of what appears to be an abandoned lot, the ground uneven beneath the tires.
When I step out, the air hits me fresh and cool.
Lake Ursa stretches out beneath the overlook, glassy and dark, reflecting the last light of the day like it’s holding onto something sacred.
“Wow,” I say quietly. “This is some view.”
I mean it.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been here.”
“It’s private property,” she says easily as she fluffs out a blanket she had in the back seat and drops two bottles of water and a pack of Gummy Bears onto it.
I arch a brow. “Private property? You bring me here to get arrested, Rosie?”
“What? No!” She scoffs, waving a hand. “I know the owner. It’s fine.”
Something sharp and unwanted rises up in my chest.
Jealousy.
The ugly kind.
The irrational kind.
The kind that makes no damn sense this early and still hits like a punch.
I frown before I can stop myself.
She notices immediately.
Her fingers fidget at her sides, confidence slipping just enough to make my gut twist.
“Um, I’m sorry. If this was a mistake, I can take you back to Furry Smiles so you can grab your truck.”
Fuck.
I want to rewind the last thirty seconds and smack myself upside the head.
“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “No—God, no. That’s not what I meant.”
She looks at me—really looks. Like she’s peeling back layers, trying to see what’s underneath. There’s something flickering in her eyes now. Caution. Curiosity. A wall going up, slow but sure.
“I just…” I blow out a breath and rub the back of my neck. “Shit. I’m probably making a complete ass of myself.”
Her brow arches. “About what?”
“You said you knew the owner,” I mutter, laughing under my breath. “And I guess I had this stupid image in my head of some smooth-talking rich guy wining and dining you up here. Charming you. Making you laugh. I didn’t like it.”
She blinks, caught off guard. “What? That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” I ask softly, eyes locked on hers. “You’re a beautiful woman, Rosie. I imagine men trip over themselves trying to impress you.”
She scoffs—blush rising to her cheeks.
“Um, no. Actually, that’s not true. But are you saying, I mean, were you just jealous?”
I drag a hand through my hair and let out a breath.
“Yeah. I guess I was, and shit, I know how that sounds.”
She’s still watching me. Quiet now. Still.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about you since the first night we met at Hope and Miles’s,” I confess. “And tonight? It just made it worse. Or maybe better. It made it more.”
Her lips part like she wants to say something, but no words come.
So I take a chance.
“I don’t want tonight to end, Rosie,” I say, voice rough. “And I’m hoping—maybe stupidly—that you don’t either.”
Her breath catches.
“You don’t?” she asks softly.
I shake my head.
“Not even a little.”
The lake sits quietly below us.
The moon hangs low in the sky.
The blanket she arranged remains on the soft new grass covering the ground invitingly.
The world just feels suspended.
Like it’s holding its breath along with me.
Something inside my chest surges again—stronger now. Louder.
That same insistent pull, that same certainty that’s been haunting me since the moment I met her.
Mine.
I move closer.
Slow. Careful.
Giving her every chance to pull away.
She doesn’t.
So I lean in—heart pounding, nerves screaming, hope burning hot—and go for broke.