Page 165 of Surfer's Paradise

Rosie turned in her seat, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Her brow furrowed. “Isaac—what? Why?”

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t look at her. “Because I said so.”

She laughed, dry, disbelieving. “That’s not an actual answer.”

He looked at her now, eyes shadowed and intense, and something in her gut flipped. “I’m not leaving you alone right now.”

That stopped her cold.

“What are you talking about?” she whispered. “Who was it, Isaac?”

His fingers tightened around the wheel. “I said you’re not staying up here alone.”

Her chest tightened, confusion curling like smoke in her lungs. His whole demeanor had changed. It wasn’t that he was angry or possessive—he was calm, hyper-focused, like he was back on a mission. His body was tense in the way soldiers looked in documentaries, like they were trying not to snap.

And that scared her more than if he’d been shouting.

Rosie kept her eyes trained on the road ahead, even as her thoughts spun like the blur of taillights along the 710 freeway.

She exhaled, her voice soft. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t need you to understand right now,” he said, and his tone wasn’t condescending—it was protective. Heavy. “I just need you to pack a bag.”

She looked out the window again, her heart rattling.

Something happened.

Something big.

And for the first time, Isaac wasn’t just protective—he was really, truly freaked out. For her.

She didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence stretch. Then slowly, quietly:

“Okay.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the tension in his shoulders drop half an inch. And they kept driving, heading west to her studio in Echo Park, the sky now a molten orange, fading to violet.

At her place, the entire time she packed—fast, robotic—Isaac hovered in the doorway, arms crossed, gaze never straying too far from the street. She threw together the essentials: clothes for a few days, her sketchbook, charger, toiletries. No questions asked.

By the time they left the studio, it was 7:15 p.m.

They stopped for gas just south of downtown, grabbed drive-thru tacos she could barely taste, and then hit the freeway again.

They made a quick stop in Signal Hill, less than 30 minutes later—Isaac’s parents’ place. She stayed in the truck while he ran inside, claiming he just needed to grab something. Ten minutes tops. When he returned, he tossed a duffel bag into the back seat and muttered, “Okay. We’re good.”

The drive down I-5 was long, slow with traffic in patches, then open stretches of darkness, headlights cutting through the dusk. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—it was weighted, charged, like a breath held too long.

At some point she dozed off, head against the window.

She woke up to the sound of waves.

It was nearly 10:00 p.m. when they rolled into Coronado, the salt-heavy ocean air wafting in through the cracked windows. Isaac parked in the driveway and came around to grab her bag before she could even unbuckle.

Still quiet.

---