His cup settles onto the table with deliberate precision, and then he extends his hand, breaking the ice with a simple, steady gesture.
“I’m Justin,” he introduces himself, extending his hand. Like we just met. But that was half an hour ago.
“Rowan.”
His fingers wrap around mine; they’re warm, steady, confident. He holds them a few seconds too long, and I feel unease crawling up my spine, before I pull my hand away quickly.
“Nice to meet you, Rowan.” He settles back, the faintest smile ghosting over his lips. “So law, huh? You look a little young to be a law student.”
Heat floods my face as I look at the coffee in front of me. I’m genuinely offended. How juvenile do I look? Like, did I accidentally project toddler vibes with my clumsiness?
I straighten in my chair, spine stiff, dignity shaky but present. “I’m twenty-one,” I say, trying to sound unimpressed instead of personally wounded.
“Are you one of the new professors?” I ask, narrowing my eyes, because if he’s going to judge me, I’m judging him right back.
He laughs. It’s a deep, warm rumble that starts somewhere in his chest and rolls out like he’s genuinely entertained by me. Like I’m a problem he wants to poke at again.
“Do I look like a professor?” he asks, leaning back a little, watching me like he’s already predicting my answer.
“Honestly?” I meet his gaze, refusing to blink. “I don’t know what you look like.”
His brows lift. Just a small, imperceptible shift, but a change nonetheless. Then another chuckle slips out of him, rougher this time, the sound scraping down my spine like fingertips.
And damn it… something in me stirs. Something curious and reckless. Something that whispers,What the hell are you getting yourself into?
He watches me too closely now, like he heard that thought, and he wants to hear the next one.
“You don’t look like you’re part of the university body, that’s for sure.”
His mouth curves, but it’s not quite a smile. “That’s because I’m not.”
He tilts his head as he says it, studying me with a kind of slow, curious attention that makes me feel… examined. Not admired or judged. But catalogued.
“I’m a security consultant for the college.”
A tiny, deeply humiliating choke lodges in my throat. I try to disguise it with a casual sip of coffee, but the cup betrays me, clicking far too loudly against the saucer. Smooth, Rowan. Real smooth.
“I didn’t know the college had security consultants,” I manage, watching him carefully. “What exactly do you do? If anything…” I tack on, unable to hide the skepticism in my voice. Because if universities actually had real security, then why the fuck do bad things keep happening on campus?
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze drifts somewhere over my shoulder, like he’s considering how much truth to give a stranger who can’t even hold a cup without sounding like a dying kettle.
Then he moves.
God, does he move.
He pushes his chair back, the soft scrape of it against the floor sounding far more intimate than it has any right to. One long leg slides forward, easy and unhurried, the other crossing over it with practiced fluidity. It’s the movement of someone who knows how to settle in, how to take up space without asking permission.
Like he’s done this a thousand times before, and he’s getting comfortable, preparing to observe.
Me, apparently.
His fingers drum once on the table. His shoulders ease back. His posture settles into something sinfully at home, as though he’s about to watch a show he already knows he’ll enjoy.
And I watch him, because how could I not? Every deliberate shift pulls at something inside me, something embarrassingly eager, like a kid leaning too far over the desk in class.
It’s only when he finally speaks, his voice low and controlled, that the haze snaps, and I remember how to function. He leans forward just enough for his voice to drop into that private, smoky register.
“I do whatever the college needs.”
