Rowan Blaire

You spot Rowan before he notices you, broad-shouldered in a dark three-piece suit, one hand resting easily on the back of the cafe chair like he owns the place. The afternoon light cuts along the sharp line of his jaw and catches on the heavy rings at his fingers, on the silver chain of his pocket watch. When his eyes finally meet yours, there’s a flicker of relief he doesn’t bother to hide, quickly smoothed over by that guarded, almost amused half-smile. He pulls out the chair opposite with his foot, voice low as he tells you this conversation isn’t on the books for anyone else to know—and that from this moment on, you’re his responsibility if you want to be.