Chapter Nine: The First Date
The morning sun poured through my dorm window, soft and golden, but I barely noticed. Today was… today. My first date. Ever. Nineteen years of life and never a proper one. Never someone to ask me to sit across a table, to laugh with me, to look at me as if I were enough.
And now… Rowan Royce.
I stared at the outfit laid out on my bed. A pale lavender dress, modest but flowing, falling just below the knee. Simple straps, nothing too flashy, but elegant enough for a café tucked into the quieter part of the city. Sophia had helped me pick it out—she had insisted I look like a "soft spring sunrise," whatever that meant.
I tugged at the fabric nervously, smoothed down the pleats. My heart fluttered so wildly I was sure it could be heard outside the dorm.
"I look… ridiculous," I whispered to myself.
"No, you don't," Sophia's voice answered from the doorway. "You look like… someone who just walked out of a storybook. Now breathe. Smile. And for God's sake, try not to faint when he sees you."
I blinked. "I… I don't even know if he wants to be here," I murmured.
"You think he wants to be anywhere else?"
Sophia grinned. "You've got this. Go. Enjoy it. And text me every detail. Every smile, every word. I want the play-by-play."
I nodded, trying to summon courage, and took a deep breath.
The café wasn't far. A small, cozy place with low wooden tables, warm light spilling from brass lamps, faint jazz music floating through the air. The kind of place that felt like a secret world, quiet and soft.
I arrived first, the lavender dress swaying gently with each step. My hands were clammy. My stomach was a swarm of butterflies. I'd never done this before. Never had someone care enough to wait for me, let alone sit with me and want to know me.
And then he arrived.
Rowan.
Even in casual clothes—dark jeans, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the collar slightly undone—he looked… breathtaking. The lines of his face, the intensity of his eyes, the subtle way he moved. Mature. Calm. In control.
And yet… somehow… softer here. With me.
He spotted me, his gaze sharpening, then easing as a faint, almost imperceptible smile curved his lips. He took a step toward me, and I felt the air shift.
"Hello, Aira," he said, his voice low but gentle.
"Hi," I whispered, the single word barely escaping my throat.
"May I?" he gestured toward the chair across from me.
I nodded. "Yes."
He seated himself with that effortless grace, hands resting on the table. There was a quiet presence about him, a magnetic stillness that pulled my attention completely.
For a long moment, we simply looked at each other. I wanted to speak, but my words felt fragile. Like glass.
"I… I don't really know how to do this," I admitted finally, the words spilling out before I could stop them. "A… a date, I mean. I've never… not like this."
Rowan's lips curved again, just slightly, a glimmer of amusement softening his eyes. "Nor have I," he said. "And yet… it feels… right. Somehow."
I felt heat rush to my cheeks. "Right?" I repeated.
"Yes," he said simply, eyes holding mine. "With you, it feels… uncomplicated. Honest. That's rare."
I swallowed, unsure what to say next. The faint scent of him—like rain, leather, and something indefinable—made me nervous, giddy, and aware of every fluttering beat of my heart.
We ordered coffee. Mine was a delicate lavender latte, his black, bitter and strong. We sat close, but not touching. Yet somehow… I felt the invisible thread connecting us.
"I'm curious," I said, nervously tracing the rim of my cup. "You… never told me… how old you are."
He chuckled softly, the sound warm and low. "I prefer it stays a mystery. Age doesn't matter here, Aira. Not today."
I smiled shyly. "Okay. If you say so."
He leaned back slightly, studying me like he was memorizing every movement, every nuance. "You're nervous," he said.
I laughed nervously. "I… have never done this before."
"Firsts are… important," he said, his voice softening. "They linger in the mind."
It was true. Just hearing him speak this way—calm, deliberate, interested—made me feel… seen. Really seen. For the first time in a long while, I felt like I mattered beyond a shadow in a cold house, beyond a name on a university roster.
We talked. Slowly, carefully. About books I'd read, music I liked, the cafés I visited, the quiet corners of the city. Rowan shared pieces of himself—small things, not dangerous ones—moments that made me smile and feel like a normal nineteen-year-old.
And then he asked about my family.
"My father," I said quietly, "he… he's never been… around. And my brother… he's ambitious. Everything is work, politics, control."
He nodded, silent, listening. "And your mother?"
A soft ache pressed my chest. "Gone," I said simply. "Always gone now."
He didn't comment, just reached across the table—carefully, as if testing—and brushed a hand over mine. The contact was light, almost hesitant. But it sent a shiver straight through me.
"I want you to know," he murmured, "that doesn't matter here. Not with me. You're… not alone."
My breath caught. The sincerity in his tone, the intensity in his eyes—it wasn't intimidation this time. It was… devotion.
I looked down at our hands. Mine felt small, warm against his. I wanted to speak, but words failed me. Instead, I smiled. Small, shy, unpracticed. But it was real.
And Rowan… he noticed. His lips curved slightly, a rare softness. A smile that I would remember forever.
We spent hours like that, talking, laughing softly, sipping coffee, lingering in the tiny world we had created at that table. He teased me gently when I hesitated over words, laughed when I blushed at little jokes, and occasionally studied me with that piercing focus that made me feel simultaneously exposed and protected.
Somewhere between the second cup and the half-eaten pastry, I realized… I didn't care about anything else. Not the age gap, not the warnings that whispered in the back of my mind. I was craving attention, warmth, care. And Rowan—Rowan was giving it freely, completely, and with a gravity that terrified and thrilled me.
The café grew quieter around us, the outside world fading. I felt a strange, innocent connection, like the first chords of a song that would never leave.
Rowan broke the silence with a low chuckle. "You blush beautifully," he said.
I froze. "I—what?"
He leaned forward slightly, dark eyes softening. "It's… captivating. You're… captivating."
I felt heat rise and my heart thumped so loudly I was sure he could hear it. "Stop," I whispered, though my lips curved into a reluctant smile.
"No," he said firmly, voice low but gentle. "Not until you stop pretending you don't like it."
I could barely form words. Could barely process the intensity, the warmth, the… care.
When it was finally time to leave, the world outside the café seemed louder, colder, but I held onto the memory of our small, private universe. Rowan walked me back slowly, matching my pace. He didn't touch me unnecessarily, but the proximity—the brush of his sleeve against mine, the occasional glance that lingered—left me dizzy.
At the dorm, I finally whispered, barely audible: "Thank you… for today."
He gave a faint nod. "Tomorrow," he said softly. "We'll do it again."
I watched him walk away, tall, dark, commanding… and yet somehow completely gentle.
For the first time in my life, I realized something terrifying and exhilarating: I was falling.
And I knew… I didn't want to stop.