Then I see him. He’s already there, in the booth by the window. Same spot we used to sit in.
Rowan used to be all wild eyes and mischievous smiles. Restless hands and bad decisions wrapped in denim and defiance. But now… Now, he sits a little straighter, shoulders heavy but controlled. The fire in his eyes hasn’t gone out, but it seems tempered.
There’s also no missing how his jaw is sharper, the stubble darker, thicker, more…grown-up. There are lines near his eyes that weren’t there before, and his dark hair is a little unruly, like he’s been running his hands through it on repeat.
And yet, when his gaze lifts and lands on me, something boyish and familiar flickers in his expression and makes my chest tighten in that awful, stupidly tender way.
I hate that I still feel that pulse of recognition. That burn of something I never quite managed to let go of.
He sees me standing there like I’ve forgotten how to move, and I catch the flash of uncertainty in his expression. Just as quickly, it’s gone, the corner of his mouth tipping up.
Suddenly, my feet are moving. I just go to him, like I’m tethered to some invisible thread that only ever led to him. By the time I reach the booth, he’s standing, and before I can find any words or defenses, his arms are around me.
And I break.
All the walls I’ve carefully built around my heart give out at once. His arms wrap tight, stronger now, more solid than I remember. And yet, there’s a gentleness in the way he holds me, like he’s afraid I might vanish if he isn’t careful.
I bury my face in his chest, and just like that, the tears come hot and fast. They spill down my cheeks and sink into the fabric of his shirt, leaving tiny stains he doesn’t seem to care about. I don’t even know why I’m crying. Maybe it’s from years of pretending I didn’t need his closeness. Maybe it’s all the silence of everything I never said that comes flooding back in.
No matter how hard I try to keep it together, I can’t. The sobs rip free from somewhere deep and desperate. I hate that I can’tseem to stop, especially not when he’s holding me like this, so achingly real.
He doesn’t say anything at first. His hands just move in slow circles on my back. His own breath catches, his chest stiffening beneath my cheek.
Then softly,brokenly, he says, “I’m so sorry.”
Three words, whispered into my hair, split me wide open.
I cry harder, and for a second, I forget where we are. A chair scrapes across the floor somewhere behind us, and a fork clinks against a plate, and suddenly, I remember we’re in the middle of a diner. With people who are most likely watching our exchange.
A wave of embarrassment rushes in. I sniff hard, blinking fast, trying to gather the pieces of myself that scattered somewhere between his chest and that apology. I pull back, not all the way, because I don’t think I can just yet, but just enough to tilt my face up toward him.
And what I see nearly breaks me all over again because he looks wrecked. His brows are pulled tight like he’s in pain, like watching me fall apart in his arms might be killing him a little.
“Why are you here, Rowan?”
His jaw clenches, and I sense the shift in him. He’s gearing up to run or confess. “It was time for me to come home.”
Home.
For so long,Iwanted to be that place for him. I swallow hard, nodding slowly, trying to quiet the ache that hasn’t stopped echoing in my chest since the moment I saw him in the clinic lobby. But there’s also a sliver of hope seeping through the cracks.
I step back from him, untangling myself from his arms even though it’s like leaving shelter in a storm. I need the space. Something to ground me before I forget every reason I ever learned how to protect myself.
The booth is just a few steps away, but each one drags until I finally slide into the cracked vinyl seat, the familiar squeaktugging at a hundred memories I’ve shoved into the attic of my mind.
There’s a plate of greasy fries piled high in the middle of the table. Two milkshakes sweating in their tall silver cups. Chocolate for him. Strawberry for me.
I stare at them, stunned by the simplicity of it. By the fact that he remembered.
My heart stumbles and trips over the past. Despite everything, a small, helpless smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I lift my eyes and catch that barely there curve of his mouth. It’s sohim. So achingly, frustratingly Rowan. The boy I knew, still tucked beneath the man he’s grown into. A little older. A little rougher. But still in there.
I shake my head, not sure if I want to laugh or cry or maybe just crawl across the table and punch him in the chest for showing up and being exactly who I’ve been missing.
“You look good, Violet.” he says quietly, and my stomach dips at the way my name sounds in his low, reverent voice.
“Thanks,” I murmur, swallowing past the tightness in my throat. “You…” I trail off, waving a hand toward his arms, his collarbone. “You look…inkier.”
That slow, lazy grin I used to tease him about spreads across his face.Damn it, it undoes me. “Yeah?” he says, voice warm with amusement. “Picked up a few along the way.”
