13. Rowan
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 about energy, 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 knows something. 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.”
He studies my face like he’s weighing whether to push. He doesn’t. He never does, and I think that’s what I love about him.
“That’s good.” There’s a sense of finality in his words. “You deserve to be happy, Rowan.”
Something tight loosens in my chest.
He releases my hands and leans back, his earlier energy returning in a controlled burst. “Speaking of deserving things,” he lowers his voice conspiratorally. “I have a surprise for you.”
My pulse picks up immediately. “What sort of surprise?”
“A good one,” he replies. “One that took me several favors I may never financially recover from.”
I still.
He reaches into his bag and slides a folded piece of paper across the table, keeping his hand over it for a beat. Not teasing. Just careful.
“I finally got something on Delaney.” This is a surprise. “Not everything. But… it’s something.”
My fingers curl beneath the table.
“What kind of something?” I ask evenly.
“A residential address. Or one of them, at least. They move around a lot—him and his wife. Overseas travel. Long stays. But this place? It’s consistent enough to matter.”
I don’t touch the paper yet.
“And,” he continues, “he frequents a club. Very exclusive. Very private. The Slay Pen.”
The name sounds heavy and dangerous and wrong.
“It sounds like an underground dungeon,” I tell him.
“It could be,” he muses. “Entry is so exclusive, I don’t know how you’d even get near it,” Florencio adds.
“I’ll find a way,” I hum, looking down at the addresses on the paper.
“I don’t see how. Membership is locked down tight. Money, references, NDAs. It’s the kind of place that thrives on not being seen.”
“All good. I don’t need to go inside,” I say quietly.
He blinks. “You don’t?”
“No.” I take the paper now, folding it once and slipping it into my bag. “People make mistakes on the way in and out. I’m sure I’ll find something.”
Florencio exhales slowly, eyes sharpening. “Rowan…”
“I know,” I say gently. “I do.”
He searches my face, concern threading through his expression. “You’re sure about this?”
I meet his gaze. “I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”
He nods once. Trust, plain and unadorned. He doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t ask what I plan to do with it. That’s not his way.
“That’s all I’ve got,” Flo tells me. “And… for what it’s worth—I believe you’ll use it the right way.”
I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. “Thank you.”
“For the record,” he adds, lighter now, “if this ends with you needing bail money, I expect front-page credit.”
I smile faintly. “Anonymous doesn’t do bylines.”
“Tragic,” he sighs.
We finish our coffee in comfortable silence. When we part outside, he hugs me—brief, warm, sincere—and heads off toward the newsroom.
I watch him go, then turn the other way.
Marcus Delaney doesn’t know it yet.
But the walls around his life are already cracking.
And I’m done watching from the dark.