My phone buzzes after midnight. Rowan: “You up?” Then: “Can you come over? When I get there, he’s on the porch—hoodie on, guitar in his lap, candle flickering beside him. He doesn’t say anything. Just looks up, meets my eyes, and the tension in his shoulders eases. He shifts over, making room beside him, then starts softly strumming like he’d been waiting for me to arrive.
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