Chapter Sixteen: Morning Light and Hidden Shadows
Waking up felt different.
My body was heavy with a deep, peaceful calm—the kind I hadn't known since I was a child. My dorm room was the same as always: the scratchy wool blanket, the faint smell of old books and instant noodles, the distant sounds of students starting their day. But for a few perfect seconds, none of that mattered. All I could feel was the ghost of warmth against my side, the memory of a steady heartbeat, and a hand holding mine.
Moonlight. A quiet car. Him.
Then my brain woke up fully, and reality clicked into place. I was alone. It was morning. And for the first time in my life, I wasn't sad about it.
I sat up slowly, pushing my hair out of my face. My phone glowed on the nightstand.
There was a message.
Unknown Number:
Did you sleep well?
My breath caught. I knew exactly who it was. A silly, giddy smile spread across my face before I could stop it.
I typed back, my thumbs clumsy with sleep and nerves.
Me:
I think I did… I don't even remember falling asleep.
The three dots appeared instantly. He was waiting.
Unknown Number:
You did. Against my arm.
Heat rushed to my cheeks. I'd fallen asleep on him. I buried my face in my hands, equal parts mortified and thrilled.
Me:
I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—
Unknown Number:
Don't apologize.
The firmness of his text made my stomach flutter. I hugged my pillow, trying to contain the swell of emotion in my chest.
Me:
Thank you for taking me home safely.
The three dots danced for a moment, then stopped, then started again. He was thinking about what to say.
Unknown Number:
I stayed until you were inside.
You waved. You don't remember that either.
A laugh bubbled out of me—soft, disbelieving.
Me:
I wave in my sleep apparently.
A short pause. Then:
Unknown Number:
You smiled too.
Those three words stole the air from my lungs. I could picture it—his dark eyes watching in the rearview mirror, seeing a sleepy, trusting smile I didn't even know I'd given. It felt more intimate than any kiss.
I took a deep breath. The bravery from last night was still there, humming under my skin.
Me:
Rowan…
Just typing his name felt like a secret. It felt like mine.
Me:
Can I ask you something?
Rowan:
Yes.
I bit my lip, gathering my courage.
Me:
Why are you so kind to me?
This time, the pause was longer. I watched the screen, my heart beating a nervous rhythm against my ribs. Maybe it was too much. Maybe I'd scared him.
Finally, his reply came.
Rowan:
Because you make it easy.
I read it five times. I didn't fully understand it, but it felt like a gift. A heavy, complicated, precious gift. He wasn't kind because it was a game or a strategy. He was kind because I made it feel possible for him. The thought was dizzying.
The door flew open.
"Rise and shine, philosopher! We have a date with—" Sophia's cheerful announcement cut off abruptly.
I looked up, my phone still glowing in my hands.
She stood frozen in the doorway, her eyes narrowing into slits. "Oh," she said, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "Oh, no."
"What?" I asked, trying to sound innocent.
"That smile," she accused, pointing a finger at me. "That is not your usual 'I've been pondering the void' smile. That is a 'someone has completely rewired my brain' smile."
I tried to hide the phone behind my back. It was useless.
Her eyes widened. "You're texting."
"Sophia," I groaned, falling back onto my pillows.
"You're texting a man!" she declared, marching into the room and flopping onto my bed. The springs squeaked in protest. "You're texting my brother!"
I pulled a pillow over my face. "Please don't make a scene."
She made a scene. A small, whispered, dramatic one. "You fell asleep in his car! I knew it! He has that effect! All tall, dark, and emotionally constipated—"
"He's not!" I protested, my voice muffled by the pillow. "He… he listens."
The fight went out of her. She tugged the pillow away from my face. Her expression was softer now, more serious. "Aira," she said gently. "You're really in it, aren't you?"
I met her gaze and nodded. There was no point hiding it.
Sophia let out a long, world-weary sigh. "God help him," she muttered, but she was smiling a little. "And God help you."
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing!" she chirped, her brightness returning as she jumped up. "It means get dressed. We have class in twenty minutes, and you look like you've been dreaming about moonlit car rides instead of sleeping."
---
Across the city, in an office that felt more like a fortress, Rowan stood staring out at the waking skyline.
The quiet from last night was gone, replaced by a familiar, grim tension.
Luca and Viktor stood behind him, two silent shadows in the spacious room. The report was on the polished desk between them, a simple folder containing complicated truths.
"She's clean," Luca said, his voice careful. "No scandals. No hidden debts. Her records are almost… sparse. It's the history of someone who was overlooked, not someone who was hiding."
Viktor shifted his weight. "But her family…"
Rowan didn't turn. "I know."
He didn't need the folder. The names were already etched in his mind, carved into older, deeper wounds. Marcus Grace. Lucas Grace. Political powerhouses. Respected names in clean, well-lit rooms. And enemies—ruthless, entrenched enemies—of the world Rowan came from.
The phone in his pocket felt suddenly heavy. He could still feel the ghost of her head on his shoulder, the complete and utter trust in her sleeping weight.
"She chose the wrong man to love," Viktor observed quietly, stating a fact, not a judgment.
Rowan finally turned from the window. His face was like stone, but his eyes were storms.
"No," he corrected, his voice low and final. "I chose the wrong woman to fall for."
He had let her in. He had allowed her soft light into his dark world. And now, that light made her a target. His care was a beacon, pointing every one of his enemies straight to her.
He looked at the folder, then at the two men who knew his secrets. "Nothing changes," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. "She sees nothing. She knows nothing. You dig no deeper unless I tell you."
"Rowan," Luca started, concern tightening his features. "That's a risk. If they find out who she is to you—"
"It's my risk," Rowan cut him off. The words were a snarl, but underneath was a raw, terrifying fear. The fear of a man who had just found the one thing he couldn't afford to lose. "You protect her from the shadows. You make sure no one gets close. But she lives in the light. She stays in the light. Do you understand?"
They nodded. They understood loyalty, even if they worried about the cost.
Alone again, Rowan pulled out his phone. He opened their message thread. Her last text glowed up at him: Why are you so kind to me?
Because you make it easy.
It was the truth. With her, the armor was heavy. The constant calculation was exhausting. She disarmed him without even trying.
He put the phone away. The tenderness of the night was receding, replaced by the cold, hard calculus of survival. Love wasn't a feeling anymore; it was a strategy. A vow. To love her was to shield her, even if the shield had to be made from the darkest parts of himself.
He had to be smarter, harder, and more ruthless than every threat circling her. He had to become the unbreakable wall between Aira Grace and the storm his love had summoned.