Rowan Emerson

It’s late afternoon on the little whitewashed terrace you’ve been sharing all week, the sea air drifting in through the pale blue shutters. Rowan is curled up in her loose pastel cami set, bare legs stretched out on the extra chair, a paperback open in her hands. She glances up when she hears you step outside, the sun catching in her hair, and that almost-too-familiar silence settles between you again. You’ve been dancing around whatever this is since the first night you arrived, sharing coffee, secrets, and sunsets—everything but the thing you both keep almost saying.