(Too Close to Stay Calm)
If anyone asked Aria Larkspur what changed after Rowan Hale's birthday, she'd say—nothing.
She'd be lying. Everything had shifted. It was subtle, like a door left a few inches ajar, letting in a breeze that she couldn't quite shut out.
Rowan had become… clingy. Not the annoying kind, which she could have handled. He was the dangerous kind—the kind that looked at you like you were the only center of gravity in the room.
"Aria," his voice drifted from behind her for the fifth time in ten minutes. "Want some fruit?"
"No."
"Tea?"
"No."
"Shoulder massage?"
Aria didn't even look up from her book. "Are you running a spa now? Close the business. I'm not subscribing."
He leaned over anyway, standing far too close. Her pen paused mid-sentence. *Why does he always stand like he owns the air around me?*
She turned a page, slow and deliberate, trying to ignore the heat radiating from him.
"Move," she said flatly.
"No."
"Rowan."
"Aria."
She shut the book with a sharp snap and finally looked at him. His eyes were bright—that same look that said he was exactly where he wanted to be. It was annoying. It was dangerous. It was entirely unfair.
"Final exams are in three months," she said, shifting tactics. "Do you plan on passing, or are you just relying on charm and delusion?"
Rowan blinked. "I do have charm."
"You also have overconfidence. A deadly combination."
He leaned back, feigning deep thought. "So… you're worried about me?"
Aria gave him a withering look. "I'm worried about society."
"Harsh."
"Accurate."
He reached out and snatched the book from her hands. She froze, raising a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "Give. It. Back."
"No." He flipped it around, reading the cover. "'Smart Guardians Should Learn to Let Go'?" A slow grin spread across his face. "Interesting choice."
Aria snatched it back. "It appeared here. Uninvited. Just like you."
"Ouch."
"The truth hurts."
He dropped into the chair beside her like he lived there. Which, frankly, he practically did. "Help me study."
"You don't need help."
"I need supervision."
"You need discipline."
"Same thing."
"It's really not."
Still, she took his papers, scanning through the pages until she stopped. "…Full marks. Again."
Rowan rested his chin on his hand. "Say it."
"I taught you well."
He smirked. "There it is."
She clicked her tongue. "Don't get used to the praise. It's rare."
"Then I'll treasure it forever."
"Please don't. That sounds exhausting."
Minutes passed, then more. Eventually, Aria fell asleep.
Rowan noticed immediately, of course. He always did. The lamp cast a soft glow across her face, softening the sharp line of her nose and the usual tension in her lips. She looked different—quieter, unguarded, and dangerously vulnerable.
He stilled. *Don't stare.* He kept staring.
"Get a grip," he muttered to himself. This wasn't safe. Not for him, and certainly not for her. He reached out to touch her, then stopped halfway, pulling his hand back like he'd been burned. *Don't cross lines you can't uncross.*
Instead, he carefully dimmed the light, treating her like she might vanish if he made the wrong move. But his mind wouldn't cooperate. *Do you really have no greedy thoughts left?* The question echoed in his head, growing louder with every passing second. He looked away, picked up his pen, and forced himself to focus. It didn't work. Everything, every single thought, kept circling back to her.
Exams came and went like a storm no one could stop. Life moved on, relentless and fast. And yet, there was Aria, standing outside the school gates in the sweltering heat, waiting.
She told herself it was unnecessary. She told herself Rowan didn't need her, that this was illogical and inefficient. Yet, there she was, holding an umbrella and standing next to a car that cost more than most people made in a decade, looking entirely out of place.
"Aria!"
It took him three seconds to spot her. He ran—actually ran—straight toward her like someone had lit a fire at his heels.
"Watch it—" she started, but it was too late. He crashed into her, wrapping his arms around her waist with enough force to make her stumble.
"Rowan," she said slowly, bracing herself. "If you knock me over in public, I will personally ensure your academic career ends right here."
He didn't let go. "You came," he said, as if that were the only fact in the universe.
She exhaled. "…Obviously."
He finally pulled back, snatching the umbrella from her hand. "You shouldn't be standing in the sun. You'll get sick."
Aria stared at him. "…You just tackled me."
"Details."
"How was the exam?"
"Very good."
"No modesty?"
"Not when I'm right."
"…Insufferable."
"Confident."
"Delusional."
"Consistent."
She almost smiled. Almost. "Celebration?"
"No crowd."
"Why?"
"I don't like strangers in my space."
"Then?"
Rowan tilted his head. "Just us."
Aria paused, then nodded. "…Fine."
Dinner was… unexpected. Rowan cooked. Everything.
Aria stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring at him in a pink apron. A long, agonizing silence passed between them.
"…You look ridiculous."
He didn't even flinch. "And yet, you're still here."
"…I'm regretting it."
"Liar."
She changed into something more formal anyway. If he was going to do this properly, she wasn't showing up unprepared. The table was full of her favorites.
"You're predictable," she said, sitting down.
"You're worth the effort."
"…Careful. That sounded almost sincere."
"It was."
"…Even worse."
They ate, talked, and argued. They even laughed, once or twice. Then came the wine—a catastrophic mistake. Aria underestimated him, and Rowan absolutely did not stop her. By the end of the night, Aria Larkspur—composed, untouchable, terrifying Aria—was drunk.
"Another glass," she demanded, waving a hand vaguely at the air.
Rowan caught her wrist. "No."
She narrowed her eyes. "Are you disobeying me?"
"Yes."
"…Bold."
"Necessary."
Too late. She slipped away, and he found her in the study, sitting on the floor and having a deep, philosophical conversation with a potted plant.
"You understand me," she told the leaves. "Unlike certain people."
Rowan leaned against the doorframe. "I see I've been replaced."
She squinted at him. "You—are the problem."
"Of course I am."
She stood, wobbled, and launched herself at him. He barely caught her.
"Train," she mumbled, clinging to his coat.
"…What?"
"Go. Train."
"…I regret everything."
He carried her upstairs, careful not to jostle her, even though she was currently trying to steer him like a broken vehicle.
"Left," she ordered.
"This is a hallway."
"Still left."
"…You're unbelievable."
"Correct."
He finally got her to bed. She stared at him, eyes half-lidded and unfiltered. "You hit me earlier," she said suddenly.
"What? I absolutely did not."
"…Rude."
Then, she started crying—loudly, dramatically, and with zero tears.
"Are you serious right now?" Rowan asked. No response. She was already drifting off.
Rowan sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, just watching her. "You're impossible," he muttered, his voice softening. "And that's the problem."
No matter how many times he tried to draw a line, she just kept stepping over it, oblivious. And the worst part? He never wanted her to stop.