Page 14 of I’ll Find You

She stills as she finishes the last bites of her food. Her lips part as realization finally dawns.

I smirk. I’ve been waiting for her to get there. “I only have one bed,” I tell her, letting the words hang between us like a dropped match waiting to catch.

Her eyes widen. Brows lifting slightly.

“Where are you going to sleep?” she asks.

“The couch.” For now, I think to myself.

She nods, slowly. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, a gesture that does things to me I can’t think about right now.

“Okay,” she nods, as if it’s all settled.

I rise and gesture toward the bedroom door. “Go ahead. I’ll grab blankets for myself.”

She stands, moving past me. Her shoulder brushes mine. It’s barely a touch, but enough to send a jolt down my spine, and a spark alight in my blood. She steps through the doorway and into my room. Our room. Something in me finally eases. At this moment, it feels right in a way that nothing in my life ever has. Maybe I was always meant to find her.

Chapter

Eleven

Rose

He asked last night if I needed a ride anywhere. I told him no. The truth was that I did, but the thought of relying on anyone makes my skin crawl. I hadn’t needed anyone in a long time. I learned at too young an age that dependence always comes with strings attached, and I swore that I would never let myself become ensnarled in anyone’s trap again.

When morning finally comes, dragging me awake, the silence that surrounds me is all wrong. He’s gone. My heart plummets before I can stop it. I don't know how I know, but I feel his loss immediately—a cold, hollow ache blooms beneath my ribs before I can force it back into its thorny cage. The conflicting emotion he stirs in me is a tempestuous storm. It’s want and fear, hunger and resentment, all snarling for dominance, and there’s no winner. Only the dreadful feeling that something is dangling in front of me, forever just beyond my reach.

Reluctantly, I pull myself from the comfort of his sheets and step into the living area. I find it empty, but not untouched. His throw is neatly folded with a pillow on top. Early light streams through the curtains, clearing away the shadows that still cling to the corners as if they’re mourning his absence, too.

Frowning, I pad on bare feet into the kitchen to where his mug sits abandoned in the sink, a ghost of steam still lingering on the half-empty cup. And then his scent. I tilt my head back to the smell of cinnamon and clove. It’s a combination of heat and spice, and something deeper. No. Something older. Ancient and primal. It coils around my senses, seeping in through my nostrils and filling my lungs as I breathe in deeply. It’s intoxicating and unforgettable, surrounding me in an embrace I'd spent my whole life searching for. It smells like the home I didn't have growing up.

Then my attention is drawn to something lying on the table. There’s a note. A key resting on top of it, and his phone number is written in a messy script along with: In case you need anything.

It says nothing else. Not when he will be back or anything else to tell me where he left off at such an early hour, but I suppose he doesn’t owe me an explanation. For some reason, it bothers me, but I don’t dwell on it. I hesitate, then pick it up and add the number to my contacts before I can overthink it.

Thankfully, Chelsea called soon after, no doubt having heard about last night thirdhand. I’ve already missed about ten calls from Maxwell and a rambling, drunken voice message from Lucinda. I suppose it’s her attempt at a slurred and tear-soaked apology. I don’t blame her solely for what happened, as Maxwell also shares some of the blame. But honestly? I can’t bring myself to care anymore. I should’ve stayed friends with him. I only dated him because he felt like the safer choice, and look how that turned out. My friend group is splintered. Maxwell is out of the picture, and the man I’ve spent months trying to guard my heart against is now the one I’m living with. Groaning, I press my palms into my eyes and let the weight of it all sink in.

“What a fucking mess, Rose,” I voice out loud, staring up at the ceiling, shaking my head trying to talk myself out of this spiral. Alex and I are definitely not together, yet I slept in his bed, albeit without him. I was all curled up into his ghostly presence, and dare I say that it was the best sleep I’ve had in longer than I care to admit. Even acknowledging that makes me question my own sanity. Despite the intensity he wears like a second skin and the way he watches me with a concern that should make me feel suffocated, I don’t fear him. I fear what he represents.

I keep catching myself thinking about him, and the overwhelming focus he gives to anything that is in his line of sight, especially when it comes to me. I seem to be the center of it more often than not. It should terrify me more. Maybe it does. However, the contradiction is unavoidable, because his presence feels both comforting and dangerous. A warmth pressed against the cold edges of everything else in my life. I don’t know why, but something about him stills the chaos constantly battering inside my chest. It’s a feeling that shouldn’t make sense, yet somehow, it reaches places in me nothing else ever has.

Sighing, annoyed with myself, I try to get out of my head, already exhausted by the direction of my thoughts. A text flashes across my screen with an alert from the towing company.

The car will be here in half an hour.

Perfect. Just enough time to pull myself together. I shower and change into something comfortable. My hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, and my makeup is kept minimal. Only my lips, painted in the deep red stain I can’t seem to give up, breaking the otherwise simple look.

When I step out of the bedroom, the house is still, but not in the way I'm used to. Not like the old house, where floorboards groaned in protest and windows let in drafts of cold air. This place is different. It's warm, orderly, and cared for in a way that reminds me how unfamiliar this kind of comfort still feels. Not having to wear thick socks or layer on extra clothes at home is something I'm still getting used to.

I walk over to the Breville on the counter and huff out a short laugh. The coffee maker probably costs more than my entire monthly grocery bill. I sometimes forget that he comes from a family where luxury is the norm, even if they don’t act like it. Not like Maxwell does. The machine is exactly the kind of thing I would’ve bought if I ever let myself spend money on anything indulgent.

I grab a mug from the cabinet. It’s a black one with a raven curling across the side, setting it on the counter. As I slide it out of the way, something catches my eye. Letters. The handwriting on the front looks like nonsense at first glance, scribbled in all caps with oddly spaced hyphens. F-CAW-F. My breath stutters. I lift a hand to my mouth, trying to smother the sound threatening to escape me.

“Oh, God.” I let out a short laugh. The sound is strange on my lips, belonging to someone lighter and less complicated by baggage. I decide to keep the note and move on to the coffee before my thoughts unravel again. The machine is far easier than it looks. It’s a touch screen, all sleek and expensive as hell. When I select a latte, it prompts me to choose everything: milk type, froth density, and temperature. I scroll through the options until my drink is finally ready to brew. When the machine whirs to life, I nearly salivate. The smell alone is sinful. The espresso pours in a slow, rich stream, topped with thick, velvety milk. It almost looks too perfect to drink.

When it finishes, I clean up the counter, rinsing the attachments and wiping it down with a microfiber cloth resting beside it. The simple motions calm me. Warm water, soft cloth, and the ordinary sounds of a home, that shouldn’t feel this straightforward.

Another alert flashes across my phone.