The day had dragged on longer than expected, meetings, phone calls, paperwork—all of it blending together in a haze of monotony. But as the car sped through the streets, something shifted within him, an impulse he didn't know he was capable of. He could feel it in his bones—a pull toward her, an undeniable need to see Rose.
It was ridiculous, really. The day had been exhausting, and everything in him screamed to retreat to his penthouse, to sink into his usual solitude. But instead, he found himself asking the driver to reroute, his words sharp and final. "Rose's place."
The drive felt endless. The silence was thick with tension, thick enough that even the hum of the engine couldn't cut through it. He stared out the window, mind swirling with thoughts, most of them about her. Rose. His eyes kept wandering to her face, her voice, her laugh—the way she had looked at him with that raw vulnerability in the hospital. He hated seeing her like that, but something about it made him want to shield her. Protect her. He couldn't explain it. But it was there.
When the car finally stopped, he stepped out, adjusting his tie out of habit, though it felt absurd. Rose's house was quiet, peaceful even. But the moment he saw her, standing in the yard watering her plants, something in him snapped.
She shouldn't be doing this. The doctor said she needed rest, a week of it. She needed to heal. But there she was, as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn't been through hell just days ago.
He walked toward her, his footsteps quick and deliberate. Her eyes locked onto his, wide and filled with disbelief, like she couldn't believe he was there. Good. Let her wonder. Let her feel the weight of his presence because, for some reason, he couldn't get her out of his head. He didn't want to.
He stopped in front of her, and without saying a word, he grabbed the watering can from her hands. The air around them shifted—her confusion, his frustration—like an electric current crackling between them.
"Stop," he said, his voice low but sharp. "The doctor said you need rest, Rose. A week. You'll do nothing but rest."
She blinked at him, her lips parting in defiance. "I'm fine. I can do whatever I want."
Her words sparked something in him, something dangerous. His grip on the watering can tightened. He couldn't let her brush this off. Not this time. He started watering the plants with methodical movements, as if he was proving a point, his gaze never leaving her.
When he finished, he set the can down and turned to face her. "It's done," he said. "Now, you don't need to worry about this anymore. Rest."
Rose didn't say anything, just stood there, her eyes fixed on him, like she was seeing him for the first time. Her gaze was intense, almost searching, but he didn't look away.
His eyes traced her face, the soft curve of her cheek, the way her blonde hair caught the dying light of the evening. Her blue eyes—those eyes that had haunted him for days—shone even brighter now, a reflection of the setting sun. He didn't know what it was about her. What it was that drew him in.
And then, he saw it—the bruise on her arm. It was faint, barely visible, but it sent a jolt through him. His chest tightened, and before he could stop himself, he reached out, his fingers brushing gently against the mark.
His touch was soft, almost reverent, as if he could take the pain away with a single gesture. The warmth of her skin burned through him, and something inside him twisted, something he hadn't let himself feel in a long time.
He didn't say a word. He didn't need to. But in that moment, something in him shifted. She didn't know it yet, but he had already declared war in her name. There was no going back. No hiding from whatever this was. She would never be out of his reach again.
Rose opened her mouth, likely to say something, but he didn't let her. He kept his eyes on hers, feeling a pull toward her he couldn't explain. He didn't understand it, but he wasn't going to fight it.
And for the first time, he wasn't sure if he ever wanted to.
He let go of her arm, but the connection lingered. Something unsaid hung in the air between them. He wasn't sure if he was saving her, or if she was saving him. Either way, he wouldn't let her go. Not now. Not ever.