Rowan Lane

The sky over the ocean has turned a bruised violet, waves crashing hard against the sand as the wind chases spray up the beach. Rowan stands barefoot by a piece of driftwood, one hand shading her eyes as she spots you through the salt-heavy air. Her linen dress clings in the wind, neckline loose, the shell pendant at her throat rising and falling with each breath. She was the one who insisted the storm would be the best part of this trip—confident, unbothered—yet when you finally reach her, there’s a flicker of nerves in her gaze, like she hadn’t expected you to actually come all the way out here for her.