“Because you’re mine now,” he says quietly, standing and stepping back. “And I protect what’s mine until I’m done with it.”
He cleans up with the same controlled focus he used on my bandage. Waffles has fallen asleep in my lap, tiny snores rumbling against my stomach.
I should say something. Anything. But my throat feels tight, and my heart won’t stop hammering against my ribs. The silence stretches between us, sharp and loaded with everything we’re not saying.
Rowan zips the bag shut.
“What do you want in return?” I ask when I finally find my voice.
He doesn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out another red-backed card, holding it out between two fingers.
My stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He doesn’t even blink.
I take the card with two fingers, then walk to the trash can and drop it in without breaking eye contact.
It lands on top of a crushed La Croix can and a half-eaten granola bar with a satisfying little thunk.
His expression doesn’t change. But something flickers behind his eyes.
“You think that gesture means anything?” he asks, voice deceptively calm.
“No,” I say, lifting my chin. “But it makes me feel better.”
He blinks once.
But I know him—or I knew him. I knew the version who let his tie hang loose after formal events and carried Tylenol in his wallet because he got stress headaches before finals. The version who kissed me like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go.
This version? The one standing in my doorway? He doesn’t kiss. He negotiates.
He’s polished where he used to be soft. Distant where he used to be warm. Sharp in all the places that once welcomed me in.
And I can’t stop wondering how much of that transformation is because of me.
Because I didn’t just leave him. I broke something. Whatever fragile, hidden thing he’d trusted me with, I took it and ran.
I left him with too many questions and no explanation. Because I couldn’t give him one. Because I didn’t have one that didn’t make me sound weak or scared or catastrophically stupid.
But I remember the look on his face the last time I saw him.
And I see the ghost of it now, buried under years of armor and power plays.
My chest aches with something deeper than regret.
Waffles shifts in my arms, letting out a soft, contented sigh.
I glance down at him—unbothered by the emotional warfare happening around him.
I used to feel that way with Rowan. Like, no matter how fast I was unraveling, he’d hold the thread steady until I could sew myself back together.
Now, he just pulls it tighter.
He turns toward the door, one hand already on the knob. His coat swings slightly with the motion, all that tailored perfection a stark contrast to the messy reality of who we used to be.
