9. Rowan
ROWAN
The steps outside the law library are damp from late-morning rain. The stone is slick beneath my shoes, the air wet and cold, sharp enough to sting my lungs when I breathe it in.
I’ve got too much in my hands: laptop balanced against my hip, case notes wedged under my arm, a pen between my teeth, coffee in my right hand—lukewarm but vital.
I take one step down. Then another. And that’s when someone slams into me.
Not violently—just with enough force to knock the air out of my chest and shift my entire center of gravity.
My coffee jerks sideways first. A helpless little tilt. Then a dramatic, doomed tip.
The motion pulls my wrist, which pulls my arm, which pulls—everything.
My laptop slips. My papers slide free. The pen drops from my mouth. And the coffee completes its betrayal, splattering across stone and the edge of my laptop like a final insult.
“Oh—God, sorry,” the man apologizes, grabbing my elbow before I can follow my belongings to the ground.
His grip is steady, warm. Too steady. Students are clumsy. Awkward and harried in their distraction.
They don’t move like this—with sharp reflexes and surgical precision.
Heat stings my cheeks as I kneel to retrieve the chaos.
“I should’ve been watching where I was going,” I mutter, reaching for my laptop first. I dab the damp corner with my sleeve, praying the coffee didn’t seep under the keys.
He crouches too—mirroring me perfectly.
His hand brushes mine again as he lifts a stack of soggy case files. The touch is too light to be intrusive, too deliberate to ignore.
“Let me help.”
His voice is soft. He speaks carefully, every word measured, like he’s trying to give me a safe place to land after making me fall.
I glance up. And everything inside me goes still.
I’ve seen this man before. I’m certain of it—certain in that unsettling way that doesn’t come with a memory, just a recognition.
His wavy dark-blond hair is damp from the drizzle, curls darkened and heavy against his forehead.
His jaw looks almost gentle at first glance, soft in a way that suggests approachability—until the light shifts and I catch the tension coiled beneath it. Control.
His eyes are green. Calm. The kind that seem kind until you look a second longer and realize the softness is trained, confident.
And then it clicks.
He’s the man who met with Dean Stockton outside the Administration building. The day after that night. After the unfortunate incident with William Scott-Evans.
Up close, he looks younger than I remembered. Which, somehow, makes him far more unsettling.
He holds out a handful of my papers. “Law student?”
“Yes” I say, too tired to invent a safer lie. “With a minor in clumsiness.”
Something flickers in his eyes that feels like amusement or interest. He gives a small, slow smile, like it’s being coaxed out rather than simply appearing.
“The world needs more of that,” he murmurs.
“Does it?” I challenge, brushing another drop of coffee from my laptop’s edge.
He watches my hands without answering.
We’re still crouched—too close, knees almost touching, papers spread between us like some strange offering. Rain drips from his coat. My pulse hasn’t fully settled.
The pause stretches between us. Not awkward or forced. Just heavy—like something unsaid has settled into the space and refuses to move.
Then he rises, smooth and unhurried, and holds out his hand. An offer. An invitation.
I hesitate, my pulse ticking loud in my ears, every instinct weighing the cost.
Then I place my hand in his.
His grip is firm—warm, steady, grounding in a way that catches me off guard. Not tentative. Just… certain. Like he knows exactly how much pressure to use, how long to hold on before I start noticing the quiet comfort of it.
He lets go slowly, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary before retreating. His gaze flicks down the street, a quick scan of the end of the block, then returns to me like I was always the point.
“Let me make it up to you,” he suggests. “Over coffee?”
I draw my laptop closer to my chest, folding my arms around it as my eyes narrow. Suspicion comes easily to me. Trust does not.
“You apologize with caffeine a lot?” I ask.
One brow lifts, the corner of his mouth twitching—like he’s amused, but careful not to show too much of it.
“Only when I knock over someone’s entire academic trajectory.”
The line lands too cleanly. Too rehearsed. It’s not the kind of thing that slips out of someone’s mouth after a genuine accident. It lodges itself in my head and stays there, a splinter under the skin, needling every thought that follows.
What are the odds—really—that I accidentally get knocked flat by the same man who was meeting with the dean the morning after I tried to fake-kill William Scott-Evans?
No. I don’t believe in coincidences.
So who is he? And more importantly—what does he want?
His timing is wrong. His presence feels deliberate. Like a move made one step too late to look innocent and one step too early to be careless. If he expects me to swallow this as bad luck and clumsiness, he’s underestimating me.
Transparency would be nice. Answers even more so.
A coffee won’t kill me. Probably. And if it doesn’t, it might give me something far more important—clarity. The kind that forces hands.
“Fine,” I say at last, the word leaving my mouth softer than I mean it to.
He doesn’t move right away. He waits—watching, measuring—until I shift first. Only then does he fall into step beside me.
Close enough that I’m aware of his presence, of the heat and the weight of him, but careful not to crowd me.
He matches my pace as we descend the steps, our shoulders nearly brushing as we turn toward the coffee shop.
He wants - needs - this to feel ordinary. A coincidence. An apology extended and accepted.
Instead, it feels… set.
And even without knowing his name, I sense the moment locking into place—inevitable and quietly dangerous. The kind of thing that lingers. The kind of thing that stains.
Something that won’t wash off as easily as spilled coffee.
The café is warm in that sleepy, late-morning way. It’s quiet, half-empty, the windows fogged with a thin film of rain. He holds the door for me without saying a word and waits just long enough for me to notice how still he stands when he stops moving.
It’s a practised stillness.
He orders black coffee without deliberation, like a man who has never once entertained the idea of sugar or cream. I fire off my order, then he waits for me to sit first, his posture effortlessly polite in a way that feels… calm. Perfectly tailored, like everything else about him.
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.”
His voice is even, professional. The words themselves are harmless enough. It’s the pause that follows them that isn’t. His gaze stays locked on mine—steady, unblinking, assessing.
“Though some situations,” he adds, just slightly slower now, “require a more hands-on approach.”
Something tightens in my chest.
I know what he’s doing. I don’t know why he’s doing it, but I recognize the shift immediately—the subtle recalibration from polite conversation to something else entirely. A test. A provocation. An assertion of control…over me.
My body tightens around the thought.
I should get up. I should thank him for his time and walk away while I still can. Every rational instinct I have is screaming at me to put distance between myself and this man, because whatever he’s playing at, it isn’t harmless—and it isn’t accidental.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t soften the moment. He just watches, like he’s waiting for me to answer.
That’s when it hits me, loud and clear. This man is a threat. He knows exactly where the lines are—and enjoys leaning over them just far enough to make you feel it.
I shift in my seat, already planning my exit, my pulse ticking faster as the urge to leave sharpens into something urgent.
“You know what,” I say, my eyes flying to the watch on my wrist. “I think it’s time for my next class.”