“I’m being polite,” I say.
“You’re keeping score.” He leans in a little closer. “Let me guess. Luca’s winning, and Theo’s last — but he’s trying the hardest, so…”
I should give him the easy shrug — theoh, I’m not really paying attention. Instead, I hear myself say, “Luca’s not winning. He’s just loud.”
His eyes lift to mine, and for a second we just hold there, fighting the same grin and both losing it. It’s the truest thing I’ve said since I walked in, and I’ve handed it to a boy I’m supposed to be keeping at arm’s length.
So I look away first.
Then Luca reopens his case against the wreath suppliers.
I’m laughing. Genuinely laughing, face relaxed, shoulders down. Nobody’s looking at me because the spotlight is entirely on Luca’s unraveling supply chain, and the relief of not being observed lets me settle into the noise around me.
During the chaos, Rowan catches the eye of a passing waitress and tilts his head toward me. She comes over and I order an oat milk latte with honey, grateful someone noticed. But when I look over at him to thank him, Rowan is already back in the conversation, not looking for credit.
As I wait for my latte, I watch him. He’s doing something with his coffee cup — rotating it a quarter turn every few seconds, perfectly even, like a clock he’s winding — as his eyes stay on Luca. But even as he follows along with the conversation, I can tell he’s thinking about other things as well, never really relaxing.
As if to illustrate it, every time the noise at the table tips toward being too much, Rowan says one quiet thing, a name or half a sentence, and the group recalibrates without knowing it. He’s managing all of them, all of the time, and I don’t think any of them notice.
“Is it always like this?” I ask him instead.
He glances over. “Usually.”
“And you just… sit here.”
“I drink coffee.” He lifts his mug. “They do most of the rest.”
“Modest.”
“Accurate.” He shrugs. “I like it.”
The exchange — the speed of it, the dryness — warms me more than the coffee does. I can tell he feels it, too, because he smiles into his coffee, even as my latte finally shows up. It makes me want to keep pushing, to see what happens. I probably shouldn’t, but I can’t resist.
“Ivy said you’re boring,” I say, testing.
“Ivy says a lot of things.”
“She said you alphabetize your protein bars.”
“I group them by flavor family.” He says it without inflection. “There’s a system.”
The laugh catches me off guard — not the polished one, not the Halden Girl version, but something quick and sharp that escapes before I can route it through the filter. Rowan doesn’t look up from his coffee, but he goes still, and I know he caught the difference.
A second later, I press my lips together, sit up straighter, and put a little distance between myself and whoever made that sound. It’s too late for him not to notice, but I can at least make sure everyone else sees the composed version of me.
“Your first time watching hockey tonight?” he says, giving me an out onto a safe topic.
“Yeah,” I say. “I was in the student section.”
“I know,” he says. “I saw you. Third row.”
He says it plainly, no suggestion in it at all, but that doesn’t stop heat from rushing through me and to my face before I can stop it. He’s the stillest person in a café full of noise and movement, and I want, suddenly and badly, to be the thing that makes him move.
To fight the urge, I wrap my hands around my cup and look down at it. I breathe deeply, trying to go flat again. I’ve spent four days being a girl nobody looks at twice, yet two conversations with this guy have made me feel like I’ve got a spotlight on me both times.
“You stood up for the hit,” he says, turning his mug a slow quarter turn.
“Everyone stood up,” I say.
