Until We Met Again ( Rowan and Johnson )

Chapter 40 

Rowan’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. The sixteen–year–old, though still green around the edges, carried an intensity in his gaze that belied his youth. When his eyebrows. knitted together and his eyes narrowed, he exuded an air of authority that did not require anger to enforce. The phrase “an old soul in a young body” couldn’t be more fitting for him. 

So that woman had found out where he lived? She was waiting from noon until now. Was she planning to play the martyr and curry favor with that man when she got back? 

Rowan let out a scoff, his voice laced with disdain. What a hypocritical woman. She’s all smiles to your face and scheming behind your back. No sooner had she moved into the estate with that man’s illegitimate son than she started scheming to push him out. Indeed, compared to that picture–perfect family, Rowan truly felt like 

the odd one out. 

Now, here she was, ambushing him at his doorstep. That must have been the man’s doing. 

The moment Rowan left the estate, he had sworn never to set foot there again, despite the brief three months of bliss it had once offered him. 

Rowan was willing to let it all go, because it didn’t matter anymore. Even those brief moments of happiness had later turned into the cruelest wounds. 

Clutching a brown paper bag, Rowan ascended the stairs with a stony expression. He reached the third floor swiftly, but his pace halted at the final step. His pupils shrank as he looked on, astonished, at the girl sitting by his door. 

She was dressed in her usual style–chic yet relaxed, with her hair neatly swept up into a high ponytail that complemented her fine features. She was makeup–free, yet her skin had a natural glow and rosy tint. Her lips bore a soft pink hue, and her lashes were impressively long. 

At first glance, her expression was aloof, almost standoffish in its tranquility, creating an aura of inaccessibility. However, when a smile graced her face, her eyes sparkled, transforming her into the quintessential girl next door, warm and approachable. 

There she was, sitting cross–legged on the ground, chin propped in her hand, head tilted to one side, seemingly in deep slumber. 

Rowan paused for just a moment before regaining his composure. He fished out his keys and made his way to his door as if nothing were amiss. 

Karla awoke to the sound of keys turning. The first thing she saw was a pair of lean, straight legs. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she looked up. 

Legs, still legs, and finally a waist. 

“Rowan?” She called out his name uncertainly, then stood up, rubbing her eyes agu was taken aback to realize that she was now eye to eye with him. 

Karla was a good 58, and she remembered having to crouch to speak to twelve–year–old Rowan. Now, at sixteen, he was already as tall as her. 

Rowan had changed quite a bit. His features had sharpened, and the baby fat was gone. His jawiine was well–defined, and from any angle, there was no denying his attractiveness. He was a young man without a single bad angle. 

Karla had seen what he would look like in his twenties. This man was only going to get more handsome. His peak of attractiveness wasn’t a peak at all because he lived on the peak, ever climbing higher and never falling. 

However, the attractive young man didn’t acknowledge her. 

As if he hadn’t heard her at all, Rowan opened the door and stepped inside. When he was about to close it, Karla quickly squeezed through. “Hey, didn’t you see me?” she demanded, puffing up with annoyance. 

Rowan continued ignoring her, changing his shoes in the entrance before moving to the kitchen with his groceries. 

Karla followed him, intending to change her shoes as well, but found no spare slippers on the rack. She looked at the pristine floor, removed her shoes and socks, and proceeded 

barefoot. 

The room wasn’t large, with one bedroom, one living room, and a kitchen and bathroom. The living room was tidy, with all items placed neatly in their respective positions. 

Karla thought that Rowan wasn’t just a neat freak. He had to have obsessive–compulsive disorder, with everything arranged just so. 

Though the apartment was clean and orderly, it felt stark and cold, devoid of any signs of life or splashes of color. It was all stark black, white, and shades of gray. 

That was indeed his style.