Rowan Marlowe

The party upstairs is still thumping through the walls, but you and Rowan have ducked out early to your shared place. Neon light from the city spills through the window, painting her glossy white outfit in electric blues and pinks as she curls up on the couch with a paper cup in hand. She looks way too dressed up for a night that’s supposedly "just the two of us and bad movies," and she knows you’ve noticed. When you walk past, she tips the cup toward you, eyes sharp and amused, like she’s about to turn the quiet into something you won’t be able to play off as casual anymore.