Page 166 of Surfer's Paradise

Still watching her.

She followed him up the front steps and into the house.

Warm lights. That familiar scent—cedar soap, surf wax, whatever cologne he wore that lingered in the air long after he left.

He dropped her bag on his bed. Didn’t say a word. But when she turned to him, his eyes were on her—burning, unreadable.

She opened her mouth to ask again, Isaac, what happened?—but he was already pulling away.

“I’m gonna shower,” he said, his voice a little rough. “Let me know if you need anything.”

And then he disappeared down the hall, leaving Rosie standing in his bedroom, the sounds of the ocean just outside the window,and her heart thudding in her chest like it was trying to make sense of something her mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

She unzipped her duffel bag and exhaled softly. Same worn canvas as two weeks ago—but heavier now. Full. She’d crammed it with more clothes, more things she could call hers. It was barely progress, but it was something. A sign she was trying.

She tugged off her hoodie, peeled out of her jeans, and pulled her threadbare t-shirt lower as she sat on the edge of Isaac’s bed. The sheets smelled like detergent and heat. Her stomach twisted. Not from hunger—she hadn’t eaten much all day—but from the gnawing ache of unease curling in her chest.

The house was quiet except for the soft sound of running water down the hall.

She stood, toothbrush in hand, padding barefoot toward the bathroom. The light spilled beneath the closed door. Steam curled along the floor. Her heartbeat kicked.

The shower was running. And behind the foggy glass, Isaac stood under the spray.

She stopped in the doorway, frozen by the image. It didn’t matter how many times they’d slept together—his body still made her heart stutter. Carved muscle, soaked hair slicked back, water racing down tattooed skin. His ribs were still bruised, healing. His hands braced on the wall.

And yet… he looked far away.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t turn around and tease her. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t motion her over with that low, cocky voice of his.

Something was off.

Rosie brushed her teeth slowly, watching him through the glass. Her breath caught when he finally looked up and caught her gaze. His eyes were dark. Not lustful. Not soft. Just… quiet. Guarded.

She spit, rinsed, wiped her mouth on the towel.

Then, without thinking, she tugged her shirt off and stepped out of her panties. The air was cool on her skin as she opened the shower door and slipped in behind him.

No words.

Just water and silence and the sound of her heartbeat pounding behind her ribs.

She wrapped her arms around his waist. Pressed her cheek between his shoulder blades. She felt every breath he took. Every little hesitation in his body. He didn’t pull away—but he didn’t pull her in either.

His body was a wall. Hot and strong and steady. But something inside him was fractured.

Her palms splayed across his chest, and she carefully turned him to face her.

His face was unreadable. Wet lashes. Steam. His jaw clenched.

That’s when she saw them—his knuckles.

Raw. Split. Fresh.

“Isaac…” her voice cracked.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t explain. His gaze dropped to hers, and for a second—just a second—his walls faltered. She saw the ache in his chest. The thing he wasn’t saying.

She wanted to ask. To demand answers. But something stopped her. That stillness between them. That sense of something heavy dragging behind his silence.

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