This is a foreign, unwelcome emotion clawing for territory it hasn’t earned.
When they finally part—when she steps away and he lingers, calling after her with another grin—I don’t feel relief.
I feel something colder.
Because whoever he is, whatever he represents, one thing issuddenly, painfully clear: Rowan Hale is not as alone as I thought.
And for reasons I don’t yet understand, that bothers me far more than it should.
13
ROWAN
The coffee shop is already half full when I get there, the low hum of conversation blending with the hiss of steaming milk and the clink of ceramic. It smells like burnt espresso and vanilla syrup and damp wool coats drying near the door. Ordinary. Comfortingly so.
Florencio is easy to spot.
He’s tucked into our usual corner table, long legs folded awkwardly beneath it, elbows braced on the wood as he gestures animatedly at something on his phone. His yellow afro is cropped close today, catching the light when he looks up and spots me through the glass.
His face breaks into a grin.
“There she is!” He exclaims as I reach the table. “The Palimpsest herself, gracing us with her presence.”
I roll my eyes as I shrug out of my jacket. “You keep calling me such wonderful names, and it’s going to go to my head, Flo.”
“Dramatic entrances are aboutenergy, Rowan,” he replies solemnly. “You wouldn’t understand.”
I sit, setting my bag at my feet. “Sorry I’m late.”
“I was early,” he corrects.
I snort despite myself. He slides a coffee toward me without asking—the milk frothy and cosy on top—and that alone loosens something in my chest. He’s learned my habits without cataloguing them. Noticed without interrogating. It’s a small thing, but it matters.
We talk around the edges at first.
Classes. The paper. A ridiculous op-ed someone tried to submit comparing administrative overreach to dystopian fiction. He tells me his wife is threatening to ban him from buying houseplants after the last one “died dramatically.”
“I watered it,” he insists. “I just… emotionally neglected it.”
“Tragic,” I say. “Thoughts and prayers.”
He laughs, bright and unguarded, and for a few minutes I let myself pretend I’m just another student killing time over caffeine. Someone without an agenda folded carefully into every waking hour.
Then Florencio quiets.
He watches me over the rim of his cup, expression softening, the humor easing out of his posture. He reaches across the table before I can brace myself, long fingers closing gently around my hands.
Not in a possessive way. Not probing or seeking, but just meant to ground me. It’s what he does best, and why we get along so well, I think.
“Okay,” he murmurs quietly. “How are you really?”
My breath stalls.
He doesn’t know anything. Not the layers of my history. Or the way my life has been shaped by shadows and consequences. But he knowssomething. That there’s weight beneath the surface, and I carry it carefully.
I give him the version I always give. The one that’s true enough to pass inspection.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I’m doing well.”
