As I sat on the edge of my bed, the silence in the room felt thick, almost suffocating. Ailany's words echoed in my mind—she always had a way of cutting through the noise. I could hear her voice, filled with concern, just outside the door. "You okay? We can talk about my dick-ass brother and what he did. You're my best friend."
I wanted to reassure her, to let her know that I was still standing even when everything felt like it was crumbling. "Yeah, I'm okay. Just need some time to think. I'll be all right," I called back, trying to sound steady.
"Are you sure?" she pressed, her worry palpable.
"Yeah," I repeated, hoping to convince both of us. The moment I heard her footsteps fade away, I turned my attention to Rowan, who was sitting across the room, his eyes fixated on the sharp little glass piece in my hand and the lighter resting beside it.
"You hurt yourself?" he asked suddenly, his gaze shifting to my thigh, where the fabric of my shorts barely concealed the evidence of my struggles.
"Show me," he insisted, his tone both gentle and firm.
"Fuck no, just let it go and don't talk to me, okay?" I snapped, but his eyes were relentless, a mix of concern and curiosity.
After a long moment, I let out a heavy sigh. "Will you leave me alone after you're done looking?" I asked, defeated.
He shrugged, and the simple motion felt like a doorway swinging open. "It depends," he replied, an unreadable expression on his face.
With a shaky breath, I peeled off my shorts, revealing the scars—each one a testament to battles fought silently, the bruises a map of pain I wished I could erase. Rowan stared intently, and I felt exposed, as if he could read my story just by looking at me.
"When did this start?" His question hung in the air, heavy and charged.
I hesitated, the words tightening in my throat. "It, um, started when… when my dad began abusing my mom and… started trying to molest me." My voice cracked at the end, a wave of vulnerability washing over me as tears slipped down my cheeks.
In an instant, he was beside me, arms wrapping around me in a protective embrace. "I'm so sorry you went through that. No little girl should have to endure such abuse," he murmured, his voice warm and sincere. I held him tightly, feeling the warmth of his presence soak into my bones, grounding me in the midst of the storm that raged within.
As the warmth of the moment enveloped us, I felt the weight of Rowan's arms around me. He gently pulled me closer, the softness of his blue hoodie contrasting against my skin, a shield against the chill that had seeped into my bones. I nestled against him, resting my head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, which seemed to sync with the flutter in my chest.
"I'm really sorry for being a total jerk," he murmured, his fingers weaving through my hair with a tenderness that made my heart stutter. "I know what I did was wrong, and I promise to take it slow. I'll be more understanding. If you ever feel like kissing me or making things official, I'll wait."
I smiled softly, but the sting of his past words still lingered. "You have to promise me, though. No flirting with other girls, and please don't make me your bet again. That hurt more than you know."
He nodded earnestly, leaning down to plant a gentle kiss on my forehead. It was comforting, grounding. I shifted closer, my eyes fluttering shut as I inhaled the scent of him—warmth, a hint of cologne, and something uniquely Rowan.
"You know, you have really pretty hair," he commented, a playful tone lacing his voice. I couldn't help the giggle that escaped me, light and airy, like the moment itself.
"Well, it's because I'm really pretty," I shot back with a teasing grin.
He chuckled, the sound deep and rich. "You're sure? You look way too cute to be called sexy."
"Says the guy who was awe-struck on our first date because I looked hot," I replied, raising an eyebrow in playful challenge.
"Oh really?" he asked, feigning surprise.
"Really, jerk!" I laughed, and soon enough, his fingers found their way to my sides, a tickling assault that had me squirming with delight.
In the flurry of laughter, he kissed my forehead, then my cheek, his lips soft against my skin, and soon, he was nuzzling into the safety of my space, both of us cocooned beneath the covers. It was a fleeting moment of bliss, yet it felt monumental—a fragile, burgeoning trust that we both knew had the power to change everything we thought we understood about each other.