I could block his number.
But we both know I won’t. Because underneath all my righteous anger is the cold truth: I can’t create more waves and risk getting kicked out of school again.
I need Rowan to go away.
Yet, my pride gets the better of me, and I type back:Make me.
I hit send before I can think better of it, then toss my phone onto the comforter.
My phone doesn’t buzz for the next twenty minutes, which should be a win.
Except now I’m pacing.
I brush my teeth. Re-brush them. Change shirts three times and land on the first one anyway. Tie my hair back, then pull it down, then remember I don’t care what I look like for Rowan King, and I definitely don’t pause to check my reflection on the way out.
Except I never make it out.
Because there’s a knock on the door.
Not a polite one.
ARowanone.
I freeze. Waffles growls.
The knock comes again, louder.
I crack the door open two inches and find him already turned away, hands in the pockets of that dark wool coat he wears.
“You’re serious,” I say, deadpan.
He glances back. “You said make you.”
“That was rhetorical.”
“So was the text. Congratulations, we’re both disappointed.”
I step into the hallway, crossing my arms over my chest. The gesture feels defensive even to me. “You came to my apartment?”
He shrugs. “I gave you an hour.”
“It’s been twenty minutes.”
“I round up.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he’s already holding something out between two fingers.
A card.
Just three letters in bold black ink:
IOU.
I blink. “You’re giving me another one?”
“You made me come get you.”
“That’s not how this works.”
