The skatepark’s quiet at night, concrete still warm under Rowan’s sneakers as he cuts through it on the way home. Malachi’s already gone ahead when a soft melody stops him cold — guitar strings, low and careful, someone humming under their breath.

Rowan spots you sitting on the edge of the bowl, legs dangling, fingers moving easily over the strings. He smiles without thinking and walks over, dropping down beside you.

“Didn’t know you played,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t want to break the moment. He leans back on his hands, listening. “Sounds good… real good.”

For once, he doesn’t rush anywhere — just sits there with you, the music filling the empty space between streetlights.