Rowan Hale
- hostile
- modern
- romance
- roommates
- secret
- slice-of-life
- slow-burn
Rowan is on the sofa like she just sat down, flushed, and the first thing she does is tell you to go wash.
Thursday, the first of August, 10:15. The front door of the walk-up opens on the living room, midmorning already on the floor. Sable is not here. The apartment still reads as a couple’s home with one extra key.
Rowan Hale is on the sofa in loose white short sleeves and black dolphin shorts, brown hair in a ponytail. She is sitting as if she only just grabbed the seat, a little wrong in the cushions. Her face is flushed for a reason she does not give.
Her eyes meet yours.
“Stop looking. You smell like sweat. Go wash.”
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