Cece and Rowan had been inseparable for as long as they could remember—friends since the day they first understood what friendship meant. Their homes were side by side, but it was as if their worlds had always been one.
Cece was a free spirit—fiercely independent and wild at heart. She had known loss early: her mother passed when she was just three, and her father's accident when she was twelve left her mostly in the care of their old maid. Since then, Cece had wandered through life like the wind, roaming freely, but somehow always finding her way to Rowan's doorstep.
Rowan, on the other hand, lived quietly with his kind and loving mother, who treated both him and Cece as if they were her own children. While Cece's own home felt empty and quiet, Rowan's was warm and full of laughter—and she found herself spending more and more time there, the place that had quietly become her second home.
Rowan came from money, but not so ease
His parents' divorce happened early enough that he never remembered them happy together. Though wealth cushioned the practical losses, He grew up watching his mother carry decisions, responsibilities, quiet exhaustion all alone, Rowan learned early that choosing the wrong life partner could fracture an entire life. Though he was mature, kind and loveable to be around.
The day Cece's father met with his accident, the sky had broken open.
Rain poured relentlessly, soaking the streets and blurring the world into shades of grey. It was Cece's birthday.
Rowan rushed to her home , he found her sitting on the floor, knees drawn to her chest, crying in a way that startled him. He had never seen her like that before—so small, so undone.
He didn't ask questions.
He sat beside her in silence, close enough to be felt, far enough to let her breathe. He stayed until her sobs softened, until the rain outside became louder than the storm inside her.
Only then did he speak.
"I am here red nose I promise to stay always."
It was all he said. It was all she needed.
After that day, Cece never cried on her birthday again.
After that birthday, Cece began to lean on Rowan in ways she never had before
If she needed groceries, Rowan went.
If she forgot her notes, Rowan brought them.
If fever burned through her in the middle of the night, it was Rowan who sat by her bed, counting breaths and waiting for the medicine to work.cook together eat together play study.
*flashbacks*
***
Cece stood in her kitchen with an apron she had stolen from the old maid, sleeves rolled up like she was about to wage war.
"I don't need help," she announced.
Rowan, sitting on the counter and eating raw biscuit dough, raised an eyebrow. "That's usually when you do."
She ignored him and turned the stove on. Too high. Immediately too high.
Within minutes, the oil began to smoke. Cece coughed dramatically, waving her hand. "That's normal."
"That," Rowan said calmly, hopping down, "is the smell of disaster."
The pan caught fire.
Not a big fire—just enough to panic fourteen-year-olds with more confidence than sense.
Cece froze. "Rowan."
It wasn't a scream. It was a statement. Like gravity.
Rowan grabbed the lid, slammed it over the pan, and turned off the stove in one smooth motion. Smoke filled the kitchen. Silence followed.
They stared at the ruined pan.
Cece burst out laughing first—loud, breathless, almost hysterical. Rowan followed, leaning against the counter, shaking his head.
"You were saying?" he said.
She wiped her eyes. "I almost had it."
"Sure," he replied. "Five more minutes and we'd have invented charcoal."
Later, they sat on the floor eating half-burnt toast with butter, because that was all that survived.
Cece nudged his shoulder. "You always save me."
Rowan shrugged. "Someone has to."
****
Somewhere along the way, dependence became habit, and habit became comfort. Rowan stepped into the empty spaces of her life so quietly that neither of them noticed when friendship turned into something was it just for her.
By the time they reached their teenage years, Cece no longer asked if Rowan would be there.
She already knew.