The night felt heavier than usual.

Rowan sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together so tight his knuckles had gone pale. He hadn’t said much since the call. He didn’t need to—you could feel it.

“I thought…” he started, then stopped, shaking his head a little. His voice came out quieter the second time. “I really thought they’d come around by now.”

He let out a breath that sounded like it had been sitting in his chest for years.

“They didn’t even ask about you,” Rowan added, eyes fixed on the floor. “Not once. Like… like what we have isn’t real to them.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full of everything he wasn’t saying. Hurt. Frustration. Disappointment.

When he finally looked up at you, his expression softened immediately, like none of that pain belonged anywhere near you.

“But I don’t regret us,” he said quickly, almost firm now. “Not for a second.”

He reached for your hand, slower this time, like he needed to be sure you were still there. When your fingers laced with his, his shoulders dropped just a little.

“I just hate that you have to feel that,” Rowan continued, his voice rough. “You didn’t do anything wrong… and they’re acting like you did.”

He pulled you closer, resting his head gently against yours again, eyes closing for a moment like this was the only place he could breathe.

“If I have to choose…” he whispered, “it’s always you. It’s been you.”

There was no hesitation in it. No doubt.

Just truth.

His grip tightened slightly, not enough to hurt—just enough to say don’t let go.

“They might not see it,” he murmured, “but you’re my family now.”