~~This is a cut scene from Chapter 6~~

Rose stomped into the room, irritation buzzing through her like static. She didn’t get a choice. Indigo and Sakura had practically shoved her in here, forcing her to share a space with Oscar.  

She couldn’t calm herself.  

Oscar was everything to her—but for some reason, he made her vulnerable. He made her embarrassed in ways she didn’t understand.  

With a frustrated sigh, she flopped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. The room felt too small, too quiet, too suffocating.  

Several minutes later, Oscar finally walked in, shutting the door behind him. He stood near the entrance, keeping to himself, though his face was a little red.  

Rose refused to look at him.  

Oscar liked this. Maybe too much. It was selfish, sure, but being in the same space meant he could keep her safe. He could watch over her, make sure nothing happened.  

But despite the quiet tension lingering between them, neither of them spoke about it.  

Neither of them dared to.  

Rose lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, determined not to speak first. The room was too quiet, tension settling between them like something unspoken but heavy.  

Oscar stood near the door, shifting his weight, glancing at her every few seconds. His face was still slightly red—whether from embarrassment or something else, he wasn’t sure.  

After a moment, he exhaled and crossed the room, stopping near her bed.  

"You’re really gonna ignore me all night?"  

Rose scoffed but didn’t look at him. "Was planning on it."  

Oscar ran a hand through his hair, glancing away before muttering, "I don't get why you're so annoyed. It's just a room."  

That made her sit up. "You don’t get it? Of course you don’t, Oscar."  

There was something sharper in her voice than either of them expected.  

He frowned, confusion flickering in his expression, but he didn’t push. Instead, he sat on his own bed, silence stretching between them again—but this time, it was different.  

Neither of them understood why it felt different.  

Why the air felt charged.  

Why the thought of spending the night in the same space made their stomachs twist—not with discomfort, but with something else entirely.  

Oscar looked over at her, searching her expression. For a brief second, she met his gaze, and something passed between them—fleeting, uncertain, but undeniable.  

Whatever it was, neither of them had the words for it.  

And neither of them were ready to admit it.  

Rose sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the fabric of her sleeve, staring at the floor as if the words she wanted to say were buried beneath it.  

"I never thanked you," she murmured, voice quieter than usual.  

Oscar glanced at her, brow furrowing slightly. "For what?"  

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "For saving me. For getting me out of that place. The lab."  

Oscar’s expression shifted, something unreadable passing through his eyes.  

"You don’t have to thank me for that." His voice was steady, but Rose could hear the weight behind it—the way he still carried the memory.  

"I do." She looked at him then, searching his face. "You were the only person who ever tried."  

The silence stretched between them, thick with things neither had ever said aloud.  

Oscar leaned back slightly, fingers curling against his knee. "I hated that place. Hated knowing what they did to you."  

Rose swallowed, feeling a familiar pressure in her chest. She didn’t talk about it. Ever. But here, now, with Oscar, it felt different—like something she had been holding onto for too long.  

"You were the only reason I survived." Her voice wavered just slightly.  

Oscar looked at her, really looked at her, and for the first time in a long time, Rose felt seen.  

There was something between them—something that had always been there, something that had always lingered in the spaces where words failed.  

It wasn’t just friendship. It wasn’t just gratitude.  

It was something more. Something undeniable, even if neither of them quite knew how to name it yet.  

Rose wasn’t sure when her fingers began trembling—only that they were. Quietly. Subtly. As if her body had decided to speak the truths she was still too afraid to voice. She gripped her sleeves tighter.

Oscar saw it. Noticed the way her shoulders had curled in, protective, like she was bracing for something. And still, she faced him. Still, she stayed.

He crossed the small distance between their beds—slowly, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to get. Like he was giving her every chance to pull away.

But Rose didn’t. She just looked at him. Really looked. Her eyes were tired, but there was fire in them too—like maybe she was done hiding how much he meant to her.

Oscar sat beside her, close but not touching. His voice came quieter now, almost hesitant.

“I didn’t think you’d ever forgive me.”

“For what?”

“For not getting there sooner.”

The words wrapped around her, unexpectedly soft. Rose blinked, her throat tightening again. “You were the only one who came at all.”

For a second, neither moved. The space between them was small, but it felt impossibly loud with everything unsaid.

Then Oscar’s hand inched forward—slow, unsure—and rested lightly over hers. Just enough to ask permission. Just enough to say he was there.

Rose looked down at their joined hands. She didn’t pull away.

Neither of them said a word. They didn’t need to.

In that silence, something shifted—not everything, not all at once—but enough. Enough to start healing the cracks. Enough to begin saying everything they never had the chance to before.

Oscar could feel the weight of her fingers under his, small and tense—but not pulling away. That alone was enough to unravel something inside him.

He’d imagined this moment too many times, late at night when guilt gnawed through his bones. He used to think he’d never deserve her forgiveness—not after what she endured, not after how long it took him to find her. But here she was, sitting beside him, and she wasn’t yelling, wasn’t recoiling. She was staying.

He wanted to speak, to say something that mattered. But everything he thought of felt too big or too small. So he stayed quiet, letting his hand anchor her, letting the moment stretch around them like a breath neither of them had been able to take for years.

It hit him all at once—how much she meant to him. Not in the way people toss around when they’re unsure. No, this was real. Fierce. Untouched by time or trauma.

She was alive. And she was here. And for reasons he didn’t understand, she trusted him enough to stay in this silence, with his hand over hers.

Maybe that was the start of something. Maybe it already was.