Giving a final glance to the kitchen, I pick up my coffee and join her in the living room.
My steps halt at the door.
“Rose?” My legs fucking shake as I run to her.
Fuck. How long has she been sitting like this?
My gaze jumps from the front of her T-shirt to her shorts, both soaked in the hot coffee, before landing on her face. Her eyes are wide and emotionless as she stares at the wall.
“Rose.” My hands tremble as I shake her, trying to bring her back from whatever mental hell she’s in. But she screams at my touch.
My stomach roils at her response, and it scares the hell out of me.
She likes my touch. What the fuck happened in the last five minutes?
“Babe, come back to me.” The sound of my rapid, terrified heartbeat thrashes in my ears as I plead.
I make another attempt to get to her by caressing her hair. This time, she doesn’t protest. A jolt passes through my body at the flicker of life in her eyes.
Thank God!
“Rose, let me clean you up.” I can already see her neck turning red from the burn of hot coffee, but I also don’t want to take off her clothes and catch her by surprise. I have no idea what triggered this—whatever the fuck this is.
She stares at me, her eyes haunted and pleading. Tears trickle down her cheeks, but otherwise, her face is impassive.
With trembling hands, I gather her in my arms. She doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react except for those silent tears now mixing with the brown coffee splatter on her neck.
I grit my teeth at the terrified expression in her eyes. She’s begging for my help, but I don’t know what to do.
I carry her inside the shower and turn on the water. Without taking off our clothes, I move us under the water, supporting her in my arms. I’m fucking scared to make a wrong move and worsen whatever the fuck is happening to her. My mind runs wild, not knowing what to do or whom to call. I feel so fucking helpless right now.
I turn off the water and leave her in the shower for a second after propping her up against the wall.
When I return with a towel, she’s lying on the floor of the shower stall, curled up in the fetal position. My legs shake, and pain like never before rips through my chest and lungs at the sight of her.
She looks so fucking small, so broken. I can’t help the tears that gather behind my eyes. Her body trembles as she weeps silent tears.
“Rose, stay with me,” I whisper in a hoarse voice and wrap the towel around her. I bring her to her room, the floor getting wet and slippery as I walk, my wet clothes clinging to my body.
After pulling away the comforter, I place her on the bed, still wrapped in the towel. She hides her face in the pillow, and the bed shakes as she continues to tremble.
Giving her a pained glance, I quickly get out of my wet clothes and put on a dry T-shirt and sweatpants. In record time, I’m back with her.
As I untangle her from the towel, she pulls away from me and dashes to the garbage bin next to her desk.
My hands freeze, and I’m rooted in place with a wet towel in hand.
What the hell just happened?
Did my touch nauseate her?
I can’t breathe for a moment, but soon she retches, and I rush over to her.
I want to do so much—hold her, support her, rub her back—but I’m scared to do anything and make this worse.
Looking exhausted, she lies on the floor, and I get down on my knees, helplessly watching her and begging for a clue on what to do. And then she gives it to me.
She grabs my hand and mutters, “Please don’t leave.”