Rootbound

Chapter Five

Owen gripped the steering wheel with one hand, the other tapping rhythmically against his thigh.

"So then I thought," Leia chirped, practically bouncing in her seat, "why don't we just repaint the whole living room too? I mean, since we're already buying supplies, and it’s not like it's that big of a project, and maybe we could swap the couch around—oh, and the rug! Remember I showed you that one online—the one with the geometric pattern? It would look so good with sage!"

Owen nodded. Or maybe he just tilted his head in a way that resembled nodding. His focus wasn't on her.

Not at all.

In his mind, he was still standing in that hardware aisle, staring at her—

The woman with the dark hair and the knowing smile.

He imagined her again, but this time she wasn’t smiling at paint samples.

This time she was on her knees before him.

He pictured the way her throat would tighten, how she’d choke just a little—a beautiful, messy sound—drool dripping down her chin, wetting her shirt.

He’d paint her—over and over and over—thick stripes across her flushed face, down the elegant line of her throat, marking her in ways no brush ever could.

She wouldn't say a word.

Wouldn't ask for anything.

Just take it. Accept it. Sink into it.

He shifted in his seat, adjusting the seatbelt digging into his chest.

“Are you even listening to me?” Leia’s voice shattered the fantasy like a thrown plate.

"Of course," Owen said smoothly.

She beamed. "Great! Because if we’re getting the new rug, we should probably repaint the guest room too. I mean, we have the time."

He nodded again, a smile stitched onto his face.

By the time they pulled onto their street, his jaw ached from clenching it so tightly.

Home. Sweet. f*****g. Home.

A few neighbors were clustered on the sidewalk, chatting in subdued tones. Mr. Dawson stood among them, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. His wife wrung her hands while murmuring something to another neighbor.

Leia waved brightly as they parked. "Wonder what's going on," she said, already unclipping her seatbelt.

Owen barely managed a polite half-wave before grabbing the bags of supplies from the backseat.

Mr. Dawson spotted them and shuffled over, his face crumpled in a sad, apologetic smile.

"Hey there," Dawson said, voice low. "Sorry to bring bad news, but… it's Max."

Owen blinked, mind still half-tangled in his fantasy.

"Your dog?" Leia asked gently.

Dawson nodded. "Yeah. We think he must've eaten something bad. Took him to the vet last night, but... didn't make it."

Leia gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "Oh no, that's awful. I'm so sorry."

Dawson continued. "Happened fast. One minute he was fine, next minute…"

He let the words trail off, shaking his head.

Leia murmured something sympathetic, stepping forward to pat Dawson awkwardly on the shoulder.

Owen just stood there, bags heavy in his hands, the sun too bright, Leia’s voice too loud, the world too sharp.

"If you guys need anything," Leia said, "don't hesitate to ask."

Dawson thanked them and trudged back toward his porch.

Owen watched him go, silent.

Leia turned, smiling sadly. "Poor Max."

"Yeah," Owen said, following her into the house.

But inside, where no one could see, Owen Cole was thinking about paint.