It's a fact that you can't help who you fall in love with. And for Rosaline Davenport and him, it definitely shouldn't have been each other.
Because, sometimes, love stories have blood on them.
[warning: this is the mother of all slow-burns]
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【 11.
Eleven
Jazbaat 】
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[ Jazbaat • emotions ]
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ROSALINE KNOWS BETTER than to initiate the confrontation this time around. She remembers the price the two of them paid last time she opened her mouth and let out some of that anger her mother was asking her to release—just in a way Isabelle Davenport would have never approved of.
She doesn’t know why she didn’t take it out on her mother despite she herself asking Rosaline to lash out, to channel all that anger into the resentment she holds against her—she doesn’t understand why it felt so effortless to bring out such ugliness in Zachary Hawthorne’s presence instead.
And Rosaline wonders if it comes down to that irrational familiarity between them—something that is odd, and frightening, and leaves her even more confused than ever. Because this man is a stranger, and the whole point of being a stranger is that the person isn’t supposed to share any ounce of familiarity with you.
“Should’ve asked for a first aid kit.” Zachary’s voice, oddly lacking the sheer hostility, fills the limited space inside the elevator.
Rosaline doesn’t look at him, taking her time to gather her composure and prepare her tone of voice. The last time they interacted was an absolute disaster. She probably sent him flying headfirst into a fresh wave of sorrow while she herself spent the rest of the day wanting to drink bleach and rinse her mouth with it in hopes that it’ll erase the aftertaste of those horrible words she spat at him.
There’s a line between anger and cruelty, isn’t there? And despite the grief and the pain and the myriad of questions storming her head, Rosaline can see that it’s a line she crossed that day.
“I already have one in my room,” Rosaline finally responds.
“Knew that your butterfingers will land you in a situation that’ll need gauze and peroxide?”
“It didn’t slip,” Rosaline mutters, referring to the knife as she tilts her head back against the mirrored wall, cradling her aching hand to her chest.
“No,” he returns, “I suppose butterfingers are something a surgeon cannot afford to have.”
Surprise washes through Rosaline and she tilts her chin back down, dropping her eyes on Zachary. “How did you know I’m a surgeon?”
“Doctor Harding recognised you at the hospital that night.”
Oh.
Neither of them say anything after that, and it suits Rosaline just fine.
