Chapter 75 Questions
Violet
Silence stretches between us.
Rowan’s voice is low when he speaks again. “Did they ever actually see you?”
I shake my head. “Not really. They liked what I could do. What I made easier. Not… me.”
His gaze darkens. Not with anger at me. At them.
“And when you stopped giving?” he says.
“They got angry,” I reply. “Confused. Like a machine had malfunctioned.”
I glance up at him then. “That’s why I don’t flirt. Or chase. Or invite attention. It always turns into expectation.”
Rowan studies me like he’s committing something to memory.
“So when you’re kind,” he says, “it isn’t strategy?”
“No,” I say firmly. “It’s just how I am.”
“And when you say no?” he adds.
“I mean it.”
Something shifts in his expression. Respect, maybe. Or understanding.
“Thank you for answering,” he says.
I shrug. “You asked.”
He picks up his fork at last, but doesn’t eat yet. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “kindness without expectation isn’t flirting.”
My lips curve faintly. “Tell that to your brother.”
A huff of quiet laughter escapes him before he can stop it.
“I will,” he says. Then, more seriously, “And I won’t assume things about you again.”
I meet his eyes. “Good.”
We stand there for a moment longer, the kitchen filled with the soft hum of the house and the weight of things said out loud for the first time.
Then he finally takes a bite of his breakfast.
And doesn’t look away from me when he does.
Rowan sets his fork down again.
This time, he doesn’t pretend it’s about the food.
“Tell me more about you,” he says.
I blink. “That’s… broad.”
“I know,” he replies. “I mean it that way.”
I study him for a second, trying to figure out if this is curiosity or control. If this is him gathering leverage or actually wanting to know.
“What exactly do you want to know,” I ask.
“Anything,” he says simply. “What you like. What you don’t. What you avoid. What you need. What makes you shut down.”
That last one hits closer than I expect.
I fold my arms, not defensive, just grounding myself. “You don’t ask small questions.”
“No,” he agrees. “I don’t see the point.”
I exhale slowly. “Okay. Then you’re going to get honest answers.”
“That’s what I’m asking for.”
I glance at the stove, the coffee pot, the quiet kitchen that still feels strange and safe at the same time. Then back to him.
“I like routines,” I start. “Not because I’m boring. Because they make my brain quiet.”
His eyes soften a fraction. “Go on.”
“I like knowing what’s expected of me,” I say. “Clear rules. Clear goals. I don’t like guessing games or mixed signals.”
That earns a faint curve of his mouth. “Noted.”
“I like coffee,” I add. “Strong. Usually iced. Tea when I’m sick or exhausted.”
“I’ve noticed the coffee,” he says.
I give him a look. “Of course you have.”
“I don’t like being touched unexpectedly,” I continue. “I don’t like raised voices. I don’t like feeling cornered.”
His jaw tightens again, slower this time. Controlled.
“I avoid people who make everything a transaction,” I say. “If I start feeling like my worth is measured by what I give them, I pull back.”
“That explains a lot,” he murmurs.
“I like food that feels comforting,” I say. “Things that taste like someone cared. I like working late nights when the world is quiet. I like when people keep their word.”
Rowan leans against the counter, fully focused now. Not multitasking. Not scanning. Just listening.
“What about what you don’t like,” he asks.
I don’t hesitate. “Being underestimated. Being assumed. Being told I’m something I’m not.”
“Like flirtatious?” he says.
“Exactly like that.”
He nods. “Fair.”
I hesitate, then add, “I don’t like chaos that I didn’t choose.”
His gaze sharpens. “You choose some chaos.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Apparently.”
“What makes you shut down?” he asks gently.
That one takes longer.
“When I feel like I don’t have permission to say no,” I say. “Or when someone decides what I need without listening.”
He absorbs that in silence.
“And,” I add, quieter, “when I feel like I’m only useful, not wanted.”
That lands.
Rowan doesn’t speak for a long moment. When he does, his voice is low. Careful.
“You are wanted,” he says. “Not because you’re useful. Because you’re you.”
My chest tightens. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m not deciding,” he replies. “I’m stating my perspective.”
I shake my head slightly. “See. That right there. That’s where we’d clash.”
His brow lifts. “Because you’d argue?”
“Because I would argue,” I confirm. “Because outside of work, I push back.”
“I know,” he says. And then, unexpectedly, “I like that.”
I stare at him. “You like that?”
“Yes,” he says calmly. “You don’t disappear when challenged. You don’t fold. You stay.”
That shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does.
“What else?” he prompts.
I swallow. “I don’t believe in love the way most people talk about it.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
“I believe in choosing,” I say. “In staying. In deciding someone is worth the effort even when it’s inconvenient.”
His eyes don’t leave mine. “That’s a different definition. Not a lack of one.”
“Maybe,” I say.
“And what do you want?” he asks. Not in general. Not someday. Now.
The question hums between us.
I answer honestly. “To feel safe without giving myself away. To be seen without being owned. To rest without everything falling apart.”
Rowan nods slowly. “Those are not unreasonable things.”
I tilt my head. “And you?”
“What about me?”
“What do you want?” I ask.
He considers me for a long moment, then says, “To understand you well enough that you never have to explain yourself twice.”
Something in me goes very still.
“That sounds dangerous,” I say softly.
“It is,” he agrees. “For both of us.”
The kitchen falls quiet again, not hollow this time. Charged. Heavy with things neither of us are quite ready to name.
Rowan picks up his fork again, like grounding himself.
“We’ll stop here,” he says. “Before this turns into something you didn’t consent to.”
I nod, grateful and unsettled all at once.
But as I turn back to the stove, I realize something I don’t say out loud.
He isn’t collecting information.
He’s learning me.