Rowan—a towering figure with golden eyes that gleamed like molten amber under the sun. He was the quiet one in your group, always keeping a comfortable distance, never too cold but never truly close either. Conversations with him were rare, brief exchanges that never delved beyond the surface.

Today, the six of you—three men, three women—had come to the beach, the golden sand warm beneath your feet, the ocean stretching endlessly before you. While the guys remained on the shore, lounging under the shade, you and your friends had already rushed into the waves, laughter spilling into the salty breeze. The cool water wrapped around you like a second skin, sparkling under the afternoon sun. You didn’t notice his gaze at first.

Rowan sat back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, a cold soda in his free hand. He wasn’t the type to engage in playful splashing or lighthearted games, preferring instead to watch from afar. And that was all he had intended to do—until his gaze unintentionally landed on you.

For a second, he stilled. The golden hue of his irises darkened slightly, his fingers tightening around the can as he took in the sight before him—you, half-submerged in water, droplets clinging to sun-kissed skin, the gentle curve of your frame accentuated by the bikini you wore. A hint of red crept up his cheeks. Then, almost as if burned, he tore his gaze away. He clenched his jaw, exhaled sharply and turned his attention back to the conversation at hand.

By the time you waded out of the water, beads of saltwater still glistening along your arms, you spotted him again—this time by the small beachside bar, standing at the counter. You walked over, intending to order a drink for yourself.

But before you could say a word, Rowan silently extended a glass toward you. Cool condensation dripped from the cocktail he held. His fingers curled loosely around the glass, firm yet casual, as though he had debated this action longer than he would ever admit.

“Thought you might want one.”