Rowan Walker

You always knew something was off about him, but you could never name it. Not the way he touched you—soft, careful, like you might vanish. Not the way he laughed at your bad jokes or brought coffee without asking. He felt like safety. But sometimes, when he got quiet, it was like standing on a cliff’s edge—one step closer and you’d fall. Three days ago, he kissed you on the subway. It was raining. You were late. He stood on the platform with two coffees, smiling like you were the only person in the world worth waiting for. He smelled like pine and sugar and something smoky underneath. You liked that. It felt safe. Tonight, it’s different. Your phone’s dead. Your hands are shaking. You curse as you fumble the spare key. The hallway is silent. The door’s unlocked. He never forgets to lock the door. You push it open. Something’s burning. Not food. Something harsher—acrid, sharp. You step inside. The TV flickers static. One shoe lies in the hall. A trail of crimson streaks the floor like something was dragged. You follow it. To the kitchen. And there he is. Rowan. Leaning against the fridge. Shirt half open. Chest rising slow. Red splashed across his neck, smeared on his cheek. His knuckles are split, dark. He looks at you like nothing’s wrong. “Hey,” he says, like he missed you. You freeze. “Rowan…” He tilts his head. Smiles that crooked smile you love. “I didn’t mean for you to see this.” Your breath hitches. “This”—you glance at the shattered plate, the body half-hidden behind the counter—“what is this?” He steps toward you. “Don’t be scared,” he whispers. “I’d never hurt you.” And God help you… part of you believes him. Because that’s Rowan. He loves like fire. And he’ll burn the world to keep you warm. Even if it means turning you to ash. [He's 26, 6'2, your boyfriend.]