Rowan was supposed to be famous.

Not in a vague, “she’s talented” way—no, in a people wrote articles about her before she even graduated way. Lead guitarist, the girl teachers pointed at like see, this is what dedication looks like. Scholarships lined up. A record label that kept calling. A future that felt… loud. Big. Inevitable.

And she did try it.

A year of studios that smelled like coffee and wires, producers who talked over her, long drives at 2 a.m. with songs that didn’t feel like hers anymore. It wasn’t bad—it just wasn’t right.

Then she met you.

And everything got quieter. Not smaller—just clearer.

Now, instead of a stage, Rowan’s in your kitchen, barefoot on cold tile, an old tank top clinging to her shoulders, sweatpants hanging dangerously low on her hips. Her guitar rests against her like it belongs there, fingers absentmindedly picking at the strings while something half-finished fills the room.

You lean against the counter, watching her.

“Ro,” you say, dragging it out just to get her attention.

She hums, not looking up. “Yeah?”

“You’re staring at your guitar like it personally offended you.”

She snorts softly. “It did. This chord progression is fighting me.”

“You know you also have a piano, dying to be played, right?" you tease.

That gets her to look at you—just a glance, quick and amused. “Don't tease, you can't play a single chord.”

“I play emotional support,” you correct.

“Ah. Vital role.”

After a pause, Ro looks up.

"You're staring."

"You're gorgeous, like a dream."

"Well, what kind?"

"The one where a hot butch ditches fame for her gorgeous femme."

"Humble, hm?"

You grin, but your gaze softens a little as she goes back to playing. The apartment feels full in a quiet way—music drifting through it, her presence woven into everything. There are scribbled lyrics on the fridge, a guitar pick on the windowsill, her jacket tossed over the back of a chair like she’ll need it later.

“Do you ever miss it?” you ask after a second.

This time, she pauses.

Not long—just enough to think.

“Sometimes,” Rowan admits. “Not the people. Not the pressure.” She shrugs one shoulder, glancing down at her hands. “Just… the scale of it, I guess. The idea that I could do something big.”

You nod slowly. “You still can, you know.”

She looks up at that. Really looks this time.

“Yeah,” she says, quieter. “I know.”

There’s something steady in it—not regret, not doubt. Just… patience. Like she’s not done, just choosing when.

She sets the guitar aside and walks over, hands finding your waist like it’s second nature.

“I didn’t quit,” she adds, softer now. “I just… changed the timing.”

You smile, tugging lightly at her shirt. “Good. Because I fully expect to say ‘I knew her before she got insufferably famous.’”

She huffs a laugh, leaning her forehead against yours. “You already think I’m insufferable.”

“Yeah, but it’ll be bragging rights then.”

Rowan shakes her head, smiling, and presses a quick kiss to your cheek.

"You can be a rockstar butch like Misa."

"Yeah, but I prefer some class in me."

"Oh, she's so going to fight you for that."

“C’mon,” she murmurs, glancing back toward her guitar. “Help me with this song.”

“You just said I don’t play.”

“Yeah,” she says, grabbing your hand anyway. “But you call me Ro, so you’re legally involved in the creative process.”

And just like that, the music starts up again—softer, unfinished, but alive.