Chapter 5

~Liv~ 

I thought the night couldn’t get worse after being waterboarded by a sink and vodka-crabbied by a girl who probably couldn’t spell “cranberry,” but apparently the universe was in a very generous mood because the second Rowan started driving us away from the arena, it hit me I couldn’t go home.

Not because I was scared. Not because of the girls. Because my parents changed the building code and the gate remote died and I forgot to charge the backup because life hates me. And I didn’t have the energy to text anyone or beg to crash on some couch, and I absolutely refused to walk back into Rowan’s building looking like a drowned sewer rat.

I just tucked myself under his jacket and pretended to be dead for the whole ride, but Rowan kept glancing over like he was waiting for me to explode or cry again. The truck was warm but I kept shaking, and of course he noticed.

“You’re still freezing,” he said, gripping the wheel like it insulted him. “You should stay at my place tonight.”

I didn’t even look at him. “No.”

“Liv.”

“No.”

“Liv.”

“Rowan, shut up, I can’t…”

“You are not going home soaked like this, also what if you get assaulted again.. You’’re staying.”

He said it like it was a fact, like gravity, like taxes.

I tried to pull the jacket tighter. “Are you going to kidnap me twice in one night? Because that’s weird even for you.”

He leaned back in his seat, jaw working like he was trying really hard not to snap. “You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch if you think there's not another room haha. I’m not touching you. I’m not trying anything. Just… stop arguing for five seconds.”

“Well now I HAVE to argue on principle,” I muttered, because I’m stupid and stubborn and also my whole body still hurt from being slap-dunked into a sink.

“Liv,” he said again, softer, which was unfair because when Rowan got soft he became dangerous in a whole new way.

“Fine,” I groaned. “But if you snore I’m calling the ops on you.”

He snorted. “I don’t snore and really the op blocks?! ”

“You look like someone who snores, sorry girl.”

“And you look like someone who picks fights with bathroom ghosts.”

“ Urmmmmm…..” 

I elbowed him. “ I know, shut up.”

His place was too clean when we got there. That was my first red flag. A man with a clean apartment either had a girlfriend or a secret life or a trauma cleaning habit. And I wasn’t ready for any of that.

He tossed me the house key so I could get inside faster while he grabbed stuff from the truck. I stepped into his apartment and immediately felt like I was breaking some rule. 

I stood there dripping like a sad mop until he finally came in and locked the door.

“You can shower,” he said, already heading to the hallway. “I’ll grab you clothes.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re freezing.”

“I’m still fine.”

“You’re literally blue.”

“Maybe that’s my aesthetic.”

He stopped, turned, hands on his hips. “Can you please stop acting like I’m trying to drag you into a cult? Just shower.”

I kicked my shoes off and stalked past him. “You’re bossy.”

“You’re difficult.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t…..”

I slammed the bathroom door in his face because petty keeps me alive.

The shower felt like heaven and hell at once. Heaven because the hot water finally warmed up my skin. Hell because I didn’t have pads. Or tampons. Or anything. And I was not about to walk out wrapped in a towel and ask a six-foot-something hockey captain if he had menstrual supplies. I’d rather jump off his balcony.

So I dug around under his sink. Cleaning wipes. Razors. A half-used bottle of body wash. More razors. A fancy aftershave. ZERO pads. Of course.

“Great,” I muttered to myself, hair dripping everywhere. “Just bleed out in a man’s bathroom, very empowered, very modern-era feminism.”

I tried to think rationally. Maybe he had a girlfriend. Maybe she kept things here. Maybe I was supposed to find stuff. Maybe…..

Then my stomach dropped.

If Rowan had a girlfriend, what the hell was I doing wearing his jersey? What was I doing in his shower? What was I doing being carried out like I was the main character in a very dramatic telenovela?

The panic hit me fast and stupid. I wrapped the towel around myself and bolted out of the bathroom, dripping all over his floor like a leaking pipe. Rowan was in the kitchen pouring water into a mug, and he whipped around when he saw me.

“You okay?” he asked, eyes wide.

“No,” I said, because I had zero shame left. “Where are your pads?”

He blinked. “My what?”

“Pads. Tampons. Girl stuff. Do you have any? Yes? No? Blink twice for yes.”

He stared like I just told him I came out as a pigeon. “Why would I have pads?”

“For your girlfriend!”

“I don’t….what girlfriend?”

“Oh my God, Rowan, don’t lie, I’m too fragile tonight.”

He put the mug down so hard it clinked. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Well then why don’t you have pads?”

“Because I….Liv, what logic is this?”

“Don’t yell at me, I’m bleeding!”

He threw his hands up. “Okay, okay, wait. Sit down. Breathe. I’ll go buy some.”

“You can’t buy pads in that suit. People will think you’re d

oing a hostage negotiation.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Liv. Sit.”

“No. I’m fine. I’ll figure it out myself.”