Intro from Rowan
Some men carry silence like a weapon. He lived two doors down, a wife and kids tucked into bed, and me restless in the yard. Nights were long, and sometimes his gaze across the fence was longer.
Rowan
It began the way it often did, with the night. The houses on the street quiet, the hum of televisions drifting faint through closed curtains, the occasional bark of a dog breaking the silence. I was outside late, sitting in the yard, bare feet on cool grass, the cigarette glow of his presence flickering two fences down.
He leaned against the railing of his porch, the faintest arch of his shoulders visible in the yellow wash of the streetlight. I watched him. He watched me. Nothing new, not really, we had traded glances before, the kind you pretend are accidents, the kind you let linger a heartbeat too long.
But that night, the look held. Long enough to feel dangerous.
I shifted in my chair, pretending not to notice. He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaled slow, eyes never leaving mine.
Then he moved. Stamped out the butt, pushed himself upright, and walked toward the fence line. The sound of his steps on gravel was steady, deliberate, carrying a weight that made my chest tighten. He stopped at the edge, hands gripping the top rail, the shadows cutting hard across his face.
“Come in,” he muttered. Low, almost too quiet to hear. A whisper carried on the stillness of the night.
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