He gave a small nod, but it felt off. He didn't really seem to be listening. He kept fidgeting with the strap on his shoulder, then rubbed one hand with the other like he couldn't get it warm. And he wouldn't meet my gaze.
Then his sleeve slid back a little as he moved. My stomach dropped at what I saw.
The skin at his wrist was swollen and raw, marked with cuts and bruising that looked fresh. It wasn't the kind of injury that came from bumping into furniture or taking a fall. It looked like something had dug in and held tight.
Rowan noticed where my eyes had gone and immediately tugged his sleeve down to cover the injury. He seemed to realise, though, that he hadn't acted quickly enough to hide it.
"Rowan," I said softly, "what happened to your wrist?"
The way he averted his eyes told me he was already pulling into himself. "Nothing. I just – I hit it on something. Don't worry about it."
I didn't buy it. Rowan had always been a bad liar, and right now, his body language told me more than his words ever could.
My concern rose by the second. I wanted to press him for answers, but I had to be careful how I did it. "Ro, come on. That's not nothing. What happened?"
He tensed. "I told you, it's nothing. I just banged itagainst my desk yesterday." His tone was harsher now. Defensive. But he wouldn't look at me, and he kept pulling his sleeve down. Like if he kept it covered, I'd quit asking.
I hesitated, fighting to stay calm even as my mind raced through a hundred different possibilities. "If something's going on with Marcus... You can tell me."
His jaw tightened. His hands fidgeted again, and he looked like he wanted to run. But then he blinked hard and straightened. Whatever cracked through for that split second vanished behind a wall. "I'm fine, Eli. I don't need you worrying about me." He said it too quickly. Too flat.
"Rowan – "
"I have to go. I'm late for a meeting at school. I'll talk to you later." And just like that, he turned and walked away from me.
I stood there and watched him go. He didn't look back.
Every instinct in me screamed to follow, to grab his arm and make him listen. To say whatever it took to get him to stand still long enough to tell me the truth. But I didn't. Because that guarded expression on his face told me exactly how far I'd get with that approach.
Still, it felt wrong.So wrongto just let him leave. Everything about that conversation made me uneasy. How fast he shut down. The marks on his wrist. That damn turtleneck.
Whatever he was trying to hide, it wasn't "nothing."
I forced myself to turn away, but every step back toward the hotel felt heavier than the last. I told myself to give him space, that maybe I'd still pushed too much. He said he had a meeting at school. Maybe he'd call me afterwards.
But sitting with that hope didn't help.
I couldn't stay still when I got back to the room. I spent most of the next hour pacing, trying to shake the nerves that had settled in my gut. My mind kept looping back to Rowan's appearance. His face tight and pale, his hands trembling slightlyas he pulled down his sleeve. The way he flinched when I called out to him.
I knew Rowan. That wasn't work stress. It had to have something to do with Marcus. Nothing else made sense.
Minutes dragged. I checked the clock. Again. And again. I told myself to wait for at least an hour. Give him time to do whatever he had to do at the school. But I couldn't stop thinking about those marks. His exhaustion. The way he wouldn't meet my eyes.
And I was supposed to go back to London tonight. If I let this go, I wasn't sure I could live with it.
I was out the door before the hour was up. I needed to talk to him.Now. Something was scaring him enough to lie about it. And I couldn't stand by and do nothing.
* * *
The school came into view as I rounded the corner, and something twisted in my chest.
It had been a while since I'd set foot in that place. Years, actually. I came back for a quick visit when Rowan first started teaching there, and that was it. I didn't stay long back then, just to see the space he'd carved out for himself. Now, walking toward the entrance again, everything felt heavier.
The building looked the same on the outside. That strange mix of modern glass panels and old brick. Clean-cut hedges lining the path. A few teachers milling around with takeaway coffees and folders tucked under their arms. I passed through the front doors without stopping, barely offering a nod to anyone who looked my way.
Inside felt colder than I remembered. The oddly familiar sterile scent of floor polish and cleaning products hung faintly in the air. The front office sat off to the right with the same worn counters and cluttered bulletin boards still crowding thespace around it. For a second, I was fourteen again, waiting to talk to the headteacher after getting in trouble for some forgotten scheme.
Two women looked up from behind the desk as I stepped up to the window. Ms. Carrow and Mrs Adams. I recognised them both instantly, though time had softened their features.
