Chapter 95 The Library Cell
Malia's POV
The library at 2 p.m is like a ghost town, a dead hour between the lunch rush and the late-afternoon study rush, when the students are either in class or pretending to be. I’ve claimed my usual spot: a dark corner in the back, wedged between the mythology and folklore aisles.
The light is warm and golden through the tall windows, and the whole place is so quiet that it almost seems as if you could hear the dust settling at least no one ventures in here unless they’re really procrastinating.
I've been here for three hours and now with piles of textbooks and highlighted articles and the essay I'm rewriting for Vesper. Again. “The third draft.” It seems like each draft I make slashes more paper with blood-red ink, and I feel like I'm wasting my time.
I'm blurring my eyes on the page. Some hybrid bond stability over generation lines. Certain aspects of empirical versus the anecdotal. Something along those lines, not that it matters, I’m sure that nothing I write is ever going to be good enough for her.
I squeeze my eyelids shut, clear my vision and try again.
Then I feel it.
The change in the atmosphere when a Moonfall brother moves into your midst. It’s not frightening. It’s not like we’re alone. We’re just — here.
I look up. Rowan is at the far end of my table, backpack draped over one arm, carrying two cups of a mild steam-emitting substance. He is in his usual attire of slightly-too-big flannel shirt over a worn-out band t-shirt, and jeans that have a tear at the knee which looks more like an actual tear from use rather than an intentional fashion statement.
His hair is messier than usual, as if he’s been running his hands through it.
He looks exhausted. But his smile when we make eye contact is soft, genuine, relieved.
“Hi,” he says quietly, aware of library noise restrictions even though no one is there to disturb.
"Hey." My voice is scratchier than I thought it would be. I cough. "What are you doing here?"
“Brought you this.” One of the cups he’s carrying—chai latte, I know when the smell it to my nose—is placed in front of me. The way I get it from the cafe on the other side of campus, the one that uses real spices and honey instead of syrup. “Figured you might need a break.”
My chest tightens. When’s the last time someone just—bought me something? Thought of me without me asking?
“Thank you,” I manage.
He circles round the table and slides into the chair opposite me rather than next to me close enough to talk under our breath, but far enough apart that we’re able to look each other in the eye. He puts down his own cup — black coffee, obviously — and removes his backpack.
“I haven’t seen you in like a week,” he says, and there’s something in his voice.
The words hit a little harder than they should. “I have been —” I wave vaguely at the all over the place, highlighted mess. “Buried. Vesper keeps giving me extra work and I can’t—” My voice breaks slightly. "I can’t seem to get it right."
Rowan's expression darkens. "She's still targeting you. Gee, that lady is a pain in the ass."
"Yeah." No point in denying it. "Every essay is returned thoroughly shredded. Every remedial class is like—I don't know. Like she's trying to prove something."
"That you do not belong.”
I give a small nod, thankful he said it so I didn’t have to.
He leans over the table, and his hand is on top of mine, which is on my open notebook.
"She is wrong," he says flatly. Firmly. “You know that, right?”
I want to believe him. “I don’t always know that any more. Sometimes I’m not sure any more.”
His fingers clench a little more in mine. “Sorry I haven’t been around more. Things have been—” He hesitates to find the word. “Complicated. With the family. With everything.”
"What do you mean?"
He is silent for a moment, stroking on the back of my hand with his thumb in tiny circles. When he talks, it’s with a guarded voice. "There is pressure. From the people who think that this bond is, as they put it, unwise. From people with views about territorial politics and lineage mixing and scholarship students dating higher than their —” He cuts himself short, jaw clenched. “Fuck. that came out wrong.”
“But that’s what ‘they’ are saying.” That’s not a question.
“Yeah.” He looks pained. “And it’s bullshit. Complete bullshit. But it doesn’t stop them from saying it. From—making things difficult.”
“For us, all of us,” His eyes met mine. "But especially you. And I hate that. Hate you’re getting the brunt of it.”
I retract my hand, using both of them now to hold the warm cup of chai. The heat anchors me. "Is that why you've been avoiding me?"
"I'm not avoiding—" He stops. Sighs. He runs his free hand through his hair, making it stick up even more. "Maybe I have. Not because I wanted to. Because I thought—I don’t know. That maybe giving you space would make things easier. Less complicated."
"Did it?"
"No." Immediate. Honest. "Just made me miserable. Made me miss you more."
The confession lies between us naked, raw, authentic. "I missed you too," I say quietly. "All of you. But especially—" I gesture between us. "This. Just talking. Being normal."
"We're not exactly normal," he says, but he's smiling a little bit, that slight Rowan smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle.
"No. But we're us. And I’ve been so caught up in Vesper and nightmares and Aiden’s schedule that I forgot—" My voice catches. "I forgot I had more than just him. That the bond is all three of you."
Something flickers across Rowan's face. Relief mixed with something heavier. "You really have been having nightmares? "
"How did you—"
"Aiden mentioned it. Briefly. Said they were getting worse." He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table. "Are they?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Same ones? The faceless people and silver claws?"
“And all that. Dreams within dreams and I don't know what's real. Like you’re all there but—off somehow. Barren.” I take a sip of chai to occupy my hands. “They’re exhausting.”
“Have you told anyone? Like, you’ve actually told an adult who could help?”
“And tell them what? That I’m breaking under the strain?” I shake my head. “That goes in my file. More proof I don’t belong in this place.”
Rowan's face hardens. “The system’s rigged.”
“Yeah well. This is the system we have.”
We sit in silence for a moment.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I finally say. “Really glad. I had no idea I was so—” I wave vaguely.
His hand finds mine again across the table, this time lacing our fingers together. It’s not romantic— it’s just intimacy, just connection, just the simple recognition that we make a difference to each other.
“I should've come sooner,” he says. “Should’ve come to check on you rather than thinking you needed your space.”
“Now you’re here.” I squeeze his fingers. “That’s what matters.”
He looks down at our hands entwined for a moment before raising his eyes to meet mine. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yea.”
"Are you okay? Like are you really okay? Cause you look—" He hesitates, selecting his words. “Tired. Worn out. As if you’re carrying too much.”
“Honestly?” My voice is too thick. "I don't know. Some days I feel like I'm getting through it. Other days I think I'm drowning and everybody's just watching from the shore."
"You are not drowning alone." His voice is fierce now, protective. "You've got me. Got all of us. Even when it doesn't seem like it."
"Do I?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "Because it feels like--like the island was the last time we were all actually together. Since we got back everything's been pulling us apart. Classes and pressure and people with opinions and—" I stop, swallow hard."I’m just so scared I’m losing all of you.”
Rowan rises abruptly, his chair scraping against the time-worn wooden floor. For a moment I think I have said too much, pressed too fast, finally let go of the fear that’s been gnawing at me and sent him running.
But he doesn't leave. He circles behind me to my side of the desk and pulls me up into a hug—unexpected, snug, intense. His arms completely encircle me, one hand cupping the back of my head, the other solid on my shoulders.
I pause for half a second before dissolving into it, encircling my arms around his waist like holding on to him is the only thing that’s keeping me from crumbling into a million pieces.
He whispers into my hair, “You’re not losing us. It’s all complicated and messy and—yeah, there’s pressure. But we don’t feel the same, it doesn’t change the bond.” he said with emotion.
He retreats just enough to cradle my face in his hands, making me look up into his eyes. They’re serious and intent and holding mine with such intensity that I feel like my breath is about to catch.
“But feelings aren’t facts. The fact is: we're bonded. That doesn’t just disappear when the semester gets tough, or people gossip, or Vesper being a nightmare.”
"She’s a nightmare, really."
That makes him smile despite everything. “The worst. But you’re not going up against her alone.”
I nod, scared to make a sound. He pulls me back into the hug, and I let myself fall into the solid heat of him, the familiar smell of his cologne mixed with coffee and ancient books, the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear.
"I really did miss you," I murmur on his shoulder.
"Missed you too."His hand moves in lazy circles on my back. "So much. It's been weird not having you here Empty."
When we do tear away, Rowan retains a hand on my shoulder, the other hand sweeping a wisp of hair from my cheek—gentle, cautious, loving.
“Come hang out tonight,” he says. “At the suite. Low-key. Pizza and bad movies. Like we used to.”
"I have so much work —"
"That can wait for a day." He looks at me. “You need a break, Malia. You’re running on empty.”
He's not wrong. One more hour of cringing at Vesper’s red ink and I’m going to start crying.
"Okay," I agree. "Tonight."
His face brightens with genuine pleasure, which makes him look younger, less weighed down. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” He gives my shoulder a final squeeze before retreating, making room for me. “Six o’clock. I’ll text Aiden and Cian. Make it official.”
“Official pizza and terrible movies.”
“The most official.” He picks up his coffee, takes a long sip, grimaces. “Cold. Totally worth it.”
I laugh—actually laugh—for the first time in what seem like days. “You’re ridiculous.”
He stays another second, as if he is now hesitant to leave after we have reestablished our connection. “You gonna be okay till tonight?”
I look at his eyes. "Yep. Better now. Thanks to you."
He nods, satisfied. "Six o'clock. Don't bail."
"I won't."
He’s off with a backward wave, and I watch him go, tall and slightly awkward and perfectly Rowan.
I lean back in my chair, tug the chai closer, and realize I’m smiling.
That essay still sits, accusing and unfinished. But in somehow it feels less overwhelming now.
Less impossible.
I have Rowan. Have all of them and tonight I get to remember what that feels like… for a few hours.