32. Chapter 32
Chapter 32
T he sun was low in the sky, casting amber light across the cracked pavement in front of the East L.A. community center. Rosie tucked her blazer tighter around her waist, phone to her ear, pacing a slow line by the front doors as the last of her colleagues waved goodnight and trickled to their cars. She waved back, distracted. Isaac wasn’t answering.
She tried again.
Straight to voicemail.
Frowning, she dropped her hand and stared down the street. Where the hell was he?
Then—heavy boots. Fast footsteps. She turned, startled, just as Isaac came around the corner of the building.
His walk was different. Shoulders squared. Jaw tight. His black T-shirt clung to his chest, damp with sweat. His dark hair was wind-wild.
“Isaac—” she started, breath catching. “What—“
He didn’t meet her eyes.
“Let’s go,” he said coolly, nodding toward the truck across the street. No smile. No kiss. No trace of the man who had held her so close this morning.
Rosie’s body went cold. But she followed.
Inside the truck, the air was still warm from the sun. He started the engine, shifting into gear with one hand while the other rested casually on the wheel. And there—her stomach dipped.
Blood on his hands.
Actual blood. Fresh. Smeared.
“What the hell happened?” she asked, trying to stay calm, her voice barely above a whisper. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” he said. “It’s not mine.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better, Isaac.”
His jaw worked. He turned out onto the street. “I just need a minute. You gotta trust me.”
“That’s not an answer.” Her pulse pounded. Her mind raced through a thousand possibilities, none of them good. “Did you… fight someone?”
His eyes flicked to hers briefly. “Rosie.”
“What?” she demanded, suddenly furious. “You show up with blood on you, no explanation, acting like this is normal—what the hell happened?”
“I took care of something,” he said, voice like steel.
“That’s not an answer either, Isaac!”
He slammed his hand against the steering wheel, jaw tight. “You just gotta let this one go, alright?”
She stared at him, heart thudding. He wasn’t angry—not at her. He was wired. Tense. Quiet in that way that meant he was holding back something dangerous.
“You’re trying to protect me,” she said slowly.
He didn’t respond.
Rosie’s stomach twisted. “Who was it?”
A beat. Another.
Then—
His voice was so low it barely registered. “Not now.”
Rosie turned to look at him fully, trying to search his face for some clue, some truth—but he was shut down. A wall. Something about him had shifted, and she didn’t know what.
And just like that—Rosie realized. This was Day One of being Isaac’s girlfriend. And it was already terrifying. He wasn’t talking. He wasn’t ready. But somehow, somewhere deep down, she knew—whatever happened behind that building, whatever blood was on his hands—
It was for her.
And whether she wanted it or not…
He was already all in.
It was just after 5:30 p.m. when they pulled away from the community center.
They drove in silence for miles. The sun hung low behind them, turning the sky a dusky lavender as the city unspooled in streaks of motion-blur through her window. Rosie kept sneaking glances at Isaac, but he stayed locked in—one hand on the wheel, the other flexing and releasing in his lap, tension still radiating from him like steam off asphalt.
Finally, somewhere past the freeway on-ramp, he spoke.
“You got any art shit this weekend?”
Rosie blinked. “What?”
“Plans. Events. Meetings. Gallery shit. Anything?”
She shook her head slowly. “No. I’m clear.”
“Good,” he said, voice low, decisive. “We’re stopping at your place for a bag. You’re coming back to San Diego with me.”
Rosie turned in her seat, stunned. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Her brow furrowed. “Isaac—what? Why?”
His jaw ticked, but he didn’t look at her. “Because I said so.”
She laughed, dry, disbelieving. “That’s not an actual answer.”
He looked at her now, eyes shadowed and intense, and something in her gut flipped. “I’m not leaving you alone right now.”
That stopped her cold.
“What are you talking about?” she whispered. “Who was it, Isaac?”
His fingers tightened around the wheel. “I said you’re not staying up here alone.”
Her chest tightened, confusion curling like smoke in her lungs. His whole demeanor had changed. It wasn’t that he was angry or possessive—he was calm, hyper-focused, like he was back on a mission. His body was tense in the way soldiers looked in documentaries, like they were trying not to snap.
And that scared her more than if he’d been shouting.
Rosie kept her eyes trained on the road ahead, even as her thoughts spun like the blur of taillights along the 710 freeway.
She exhaled, her voice soft. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t need you to understand right now,” he said, and his tone wasn’t condescending—it was protective. Heavy. “I just need you to pack a bag.”
She looked out the window again, her heart rattling.
Something happened.
Something big.
And for the first time, Isaac wasn’t just protective—he was really, truly freaked out. For her.
She didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence stretch. Then slowly, quietly:
“Okay.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the tension in his shoulders drop half an inch. And they kept driving, heading west to her studio in Echo Park, the sky now a molten orange, fading to violet.
At her place, the entire time she packed—fast, robotic—Isaac hovered in the doorway, arms crossed, gaze never straying too far from the street. She threw together the essentials: clothes for a few days, her sketchbook, charger, toiletries. No questions asked.
By the time they left the studio, it was 7:15 p.m.
They stopped for gas just south of downtown, grabbed drive-thru tacos she could barely taste, and then hit the freeway again.
They made a quick stop in Signal Hill, less than 30 minutes later—Isaac’s parents’ place. She stayed in the truck while he ran inside, claiming he just needed to grab something. Ten minutes tops. When he returned, he tossed a duffel bag into the back seat and muttered, “Okay. We’re good.”
The drive down I-5 was long, slow with traffic in patches, then open stretches of darkness, headlights cutting through the dusk. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—it was weighted, charged, like a breath held too long.
At some point she dozed off, head against the window.
She woke up to the sound of waves.
It was nearly 10:00 p.m. when they rolled into Coronado, the salt-heavy ocean air wafting in through the cracked windows. Isaac parked in the driveway and came around to grab her bag before she could even unbuckle.
Still quiet.
Still watching her.
She followed him up the front steps and into the house.
Warm lights. That familiar scent—cedar soap, surf wax, whatever cologne he wore that lingered in the air long after he left.
He dropped her bag on his bed. Didn’t say a word. But when she turned to him, his eyes were on her—burning, unreadable.
She opened her mouth to ask again, Isaac, what happened?—but he was already pulling away.
“I’m gonna shower,” he said, his voice a little rough. “Let me know if you need anything.”
And then he disappeared down the hall, leaving Rosie standing in his bedroom, the sounds of the ocean just outside the window, and her heart thudding in her chest like it was trying to make sense of something her mind hadn’t caught up to yet.
She unzipped her duffel bag and exhaled softly. Same worn canvas as two weeks ago—but heavier now. Full. She’d crammed it with more clothes, more things she could call hers. It was barely progress, but it was something. A sign she was trying.
She tugged off her hoodie, peeled out of her jeans, and pulled her threadbare t-shirt lower as she sat on the edge of Isaac’s bed. The sheets smelled like detergent and heat. Her stomach twisted. Not from hunger—she hadn’t eaten much all day—but from the gnawing ache of unease curling in her chest.
The house was quiet except for the soft sound of running water down the hall.
She stood, toothbrush in hand, padding barefoot toward the bathroom. The light spilled beneath the closed door. Steam curled along the floor. Her heartbeat kicked.
The shower was running. And behind the foggy glass, Isaac stood under the spray.
She stopped in the doorway, frozen by the image. It didn’t matter how many times they’d slept together—his body still made her heart stutter. Carved muscle, soaked hair slicked back, water racing down tattooed skin. His ribs were still bruised, healing. His hands braced on the wall.
And yet… he looked far away.
He didn’t say a word. Didn’t turn around and tease her. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t motion her over with that low, cocky voice of his.
Something was off.
Rosie brushed her teeth slowly, watching him through the glass. Her breath caught when he finally looked up and caught her gaze. His eyes were dark. Not lustful. Not soft. Just… quiet. Guarded.
She spit, rinsed, wiped her mouth on the towel.
Then, without thinking, she tugged her shirt off and stepped out of her panties. The air was cool on her skin as she opened the shower door and slipped in behind him.
No words.
Just water and silence and the sound of her heartbeat pounding behind her ribs.
She wrapped her arms around his waist. Pressed her cheek between his shoulder blades. She felt every breath he took. Every little hesitation in his body. He didn’t pull away—but he didn’t pull her in either.
His body was a wall. Hot and strong and steady. But something inside him was fractured.
Her palms splayed across his chest, and she carefully turned him to face her.
His face was unreadable. Wet lashes. Steam. His jaw clenched.
That’s when she saw them—his knuckles.
Raw. Split. Fresh.
“Isaac…” her voice cracked.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t explain. His gaze dropped to hers, and for a second—just a second—his walls faltered. She saw the ache in his chest. The thing he wasn’t saying.
She wanted to ask. To demand answers. But something stopped her. That stillness between them. That sense of something heavy dragging behind his silence.
So instead, she just reached for the soap.
Washed his chest. Gently. Quietly.
His eyes fell closed.
And she held him.
She didn’t know what happened.
But she knew he needed this.
And maybe, right now, so did she.