Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
GAVIN
The kitchen was quiet now, except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the slow, steady rhythm of Rose’s breathing against my chest.
The light above the stove glowed just enough to cast a soft halo around her hair, catching the curve of her cheek where it rested against my chest. She fit there too well—like she belonged there. Like I’d been waiting my whole damn life for this exact moment and didn’t know it until now.
She was curled into me, small and warm, like something precious I didn’t want to risk letting go of.
My hand moved slowly down her spine, soothing more than touching—because I could feel the way her thoughts were still spinning, same as mine.
Everything had changed, and we were both still catching our breath.
“You okay?” I asked, voice low, my lips brushing her temple. Her skin was warm there, impossibly soft.
She nodded, soft and sure. “More than okay.”
The breath I'd been holding slipped free. She didn’t know what it meant, how badly I’d needed that answer. Needed her to be okay. Needed this moment to not be a dream I’d wake up from.
I wrapped my arms tighter around her, like I could anchor her here with me.
Her fingers moved against my chest and forearms, slow and gentle, drawing idle circles across my shirt and exposed skin.
When they brushed the old scar on my bicep—one from years ago, from a stupid decision and a falling nail gun—I stilled.
She didn’t ask about it. She just touched it like it mattered. Like I mattered.
“I’ve never … felt like that before,” she said, voice barely more than a whisper. “Not even close.”
I leaned back slightly, needing to see her. I tilted her chin up until her eyes met mine, wide and maybe a little uncertain, but open. So goddamn open.
“You deserve to feel like that every time, Rose. Always.”
It came out rougher than I meant, but honest in a way I couldn’t sugarcoat. Because it was true. She deserved softness. Patience. To be cherished like someone who mattered. And I wanted to be the one to give her that—again and again.
She dropped her gaze, her fingers brushing that same scar again like she was grounding herself. “I don’t know what this is,” she admitted. “I don’t know how to make sense of any of it.”
I caught her chin again, using just enough pressure to guide without forcing.
“We don’t have to make sense of it right now,” I said. “We’re here. That’s enough.”
She let out a shaky breath. “I just … I’m scared I’ll mess it up.”
“You won’t.”
Her eyes flicked to mine, searching for something—proof, maybe. A promise. “How do you know?”
I gave her the softest smile I could manage with my heart beating like a war drum.
“Because I’ve spent years doing the wrong things for the wrong reasons. I know what it feels like when something’s right. And this”—I slid my hand down to her waist, giving her a gentle squeeze—“is right.”
She blinked fast, lashes fluttering like she was trying to keep something at bay. Emotion, doubt, maybe both. I recognized it. Hell, I knew it. I’d worn that same expression too many times. So I cradled her face again, brushing my thumb just beneath her eye.
“I don’t need you to be perfect,” I said, low and sure. “I just need you to be mine.”
Her breath hitched. Her fingers fisted in my shirt like she didn’t trust this moment to last, like I might disappear if she let go.
I wasn’t going anywhere.
I held her tighter. Let her fall into me with all the weight of everything she was afraid to say out loud. Her scent—vanilla, old books, something uniquely hers—wrapped around me.
And for a second, nothing else existed.
Not the broken shop. Not the wreckage of what we were trying to pick up and build around us.
Not the storm we both knew could hit when the rest of the world found out.
But even wrapped in that quiet, I could feel the tension still pulling in her chest. Like she didn’t know if we were on solid ground or sinking fast.
She spoke again, voice barely there. “Do you think we’re going to get away with this?”
I didn’t ask what she meant. I already knew. I just kissed her forehead, slow and certain.
“I think we’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”
“And if we don’t?” she stated with concern.
I tilted her chin again so she’d look at me, so she’d see how damn serious I was.
“Then I’ll take the fall. You’ve got enough on your plate, sweetheart.”
I leaned in, letting my mouth graze her ear as I said it. Letting her feel the truth in it. “And I’d do it every damn day if it meant seeing you smile again.”
She didn’t answer—not with words. Just melted into me like that was the only place she felt safe. And maybe it was.
Maybe I wanted to be that place for her.
Hell, maybe I already was.
The way she looked at me—like I was something more than I believed I could be—it wrecked me in a way nothing else had. Not even the years of pain, or guilt, or loss. Not even the weight of the things I’d never said out loud.
This was different.
She was different.
For the first time in a long, long time, I felt something close to peace. Not because the world was quiet. But because she was in my arms—and that made everything else feel a little less loud.
Less lonely.