Chapter Seven: The Unknown Caller
The knock on my dorm room door this time wasn't the usual polite one from Mr. Harris.
It was my phone buzzing on the nightstand.
I rubbed my eyes and fumbled for it, expecting another alarm or maybe a text from Sophia, reminding me to stop overthinking every little thing.
But the number… it wasn't saved. Unknown.
I hesitated. Something in my chest tightened.
I swiped. "Hello?"
"Good morning, Aira."
The voice was low, deep, and… familiar. My stomach lurched.
"Who is this?" I asked carefully, trying to keep my voice steady.
There was a pause, just long enough to make my heartbeat thrum in my ears.
"You'll know in a moment," the voice said, calm, measured, as if speaking these words was natural.
Something about the tone—it made my skin prickle.
"Are… are you the one who sent the flowers?" I asked impulsively.
Another pause. Then the faintest exhale. "Yes."
I almost laughed, despite the strange flutter in my chest. "I knew it. I just… I wasn't sure. I mean… who else would send them without a note?"
There was silence on the line for a few seconds, like he was considering if he should say anything. Finally, he did.
"They were yours to see," he said quietly.
"And safe."
I held my phone a little tighter, my fingers brushing the silk scarf on my desk. It smelled faintly of the late-night car ride, of leather, of… him.
"I… like them," I admitted. "They're beautiful. And the scarf… it's soft. I like it too."
Another silence.
Finally, I found my voice again. "But… why? Why would you—" I hesitated. "Why would you send me flowers?"
He didn't answer immediately. I imagined him there, perfectly composed, the way he always was, eyes hidden behind dark thoughts.
"They belonged to her," he said finally.
"Lyanna."
My hand went to my chest.
"I know you don't understand," his voice continued, low and careful. "But they were hers. And you… reminded me of something she used to protect. Something that deserved attention, care, respect."
I swallowed, confused, flustered, but intrigued.
"You're saying… you sent them because of… my resemblance?" I teased lightly, trying to ease my own nerves. "Do I remind you of her that much?"
There was a sharp intake of breath on the line.
"I—" he stopped, then corrected himself. "Not her. The… memory. The care. You… caught it in a way she did. You deserved it."
I blinked at the phone. He was careful, restrained, so careful with his words that every syllable seemed like it was weighted with meaning.
"Okay," I said, trying to sound casual. "So… let me understand this. You send flowers to me because they remind you of someone you loved, and… you liked me enough to… send them?"
The pause on the line was long enough to make me nervous.
Finally, in a low, steady voice, he said, "I sent them because you needed them. That's all."
"Needed them?" I teased softly, leaning back against my pillows. "I'm going to pretend I don't hear that as a confession that you like me, Mr…?"
"Rowan."
The name made the room feel smaller, heavier.
"You like me," I said, grinning, trying to tease, to make light of the rapid thumping in my chest.
"I am not talking about that," he said firmly. "I don't… like you. Not in that way. Not yet."
The "yet" was almost too soft, too fleeting, but it hit me like a spark.
I laughed softly, shaking my head. "Wow. Cold. Mysterious. Classic Rowan. You just can't help making a simple thing complicated, can you?"
"I don't make things complicated," he said, voice edged with quiet intensity. "I make sure people survive."
I tilted my head, smirking now. "That's your excuse for sending gifts to a girl you don't 'like yet'? Very noble."
His voice dropped, quieter this time. "It's not a gift. It's a warning. A reminder. I don't know if you understand how fragile some things are, or how easily someone like you could get hurt… if left to strangers, to careless men."
I leaned back, suddenly quiet. The teasing vanished. Something heavier pressed on my chest.
"Are you… watching me?" I asked, almost in a whisper.
There was a pause.
"I always am," he said.
I laughed, nervous, uncertain. "I think that's illegal, you know?"
"You are not alone," he said quietly. "And you will not be."
The words hung there. Simple. Stark.
I didn't know what to say. I wanted to tease, to ask more, to challenge him—but instead, my mind kept wandering back to last night. The garage. Julian. His anger. His control. The way he took care of me without asking permission.
"I… I don't understand you," I whispered.
"That's not my problem," he said, but there was a faint humor behind the coldness. "Understand one thing, Aira. You are not anyone's game. You are not to be hurt. You are mine to protect."
"Mine to protect?" I asked, my voice soft, but my heart skipping. "You say that like I'm… like some kind of treasure."
"You are," he said. Short. Sharp. Certain.
I swallowed hard. My fingers dug into the blanket beneath me.
"So…" I tried to force lightness again, teasing to cover my nerves. "You're mysterious, cold, intense… and you send me gifts that smell like someone dead. Romantic? Creepy? Both?"
Another pause.
"Neither," he said finally. "Just… necessary."
I laughed softly, the sound shaky but genuine. "Necessary… of course. Makes perfect sense."
I couldn't stop myself from smiling at the absurdity of it all. Rowan Royce, controlled, intimidating, and impossibly handsome… sending flowers to a girl he barely… maybe… liked.
"You really are something else, Rowan," I said, leaning against the pillows. "I think I'm going to start calling you the Flower Mafia."
He didn't respond. A long pause stretched between us, charged and quiet.
Finally, he said, "Be careful today. Watch your steps."
"Steps?" I teased, brushing imaginary dust off my dress. "I walk just fine, Mr. Flower Mafia."
"You do not know who walks near you," he said quietly. "I do."
I bit my lip, suddenly aware that I could imagine him there. Watching. Waiting. Protecting.
The call ended abruptly after that.
I sat on the bed for a long time, staring at the phone. My mind was buzzing with questions, teasing thoughts, and a flutter I couldn't name.
It was ridiculous. It had to be.
And yet—my heart wouldn't lie.
He was watching. He cared.
And somehow, the thought thrilled me.
Rowan, Watching
I stood at the edge of the campus garden, hidden by the shadows of the early morning hedges.
She had received the flowers.
I watched her pick them up, run her fingers lightly along the petals, a small smile breaking on her lips. She was beautiful in that small, private way—soft, fragile, alive.
I could have walked over. I could have spoken to her openly.
But I didn't.
Distance kept her safe. Distance kept me calm.
Yet every small movement of hers—the tilt of her head, the careful breath, the gentle smile—pulled at me.
I had sent the flowers. A warning. A memory. A piece of her safe in the world.
And she had smiled.
Even from afar, I could see it. And it was enough.
For now.
I clenched my fists briefly, pressing my palms to my sides.
She had no idea what she'd stepped into.
And that made her dangerous.
To herself. To me.
But I didn't look away.
I never do.