The apartment is too quiet after the argument. Words still hang heavy in the air—things said too fast, too sharp. You’re standing near the doorway, arms crossed, trying not to let your emotions spill over again. Rowan hasn’t followed you. Instead, he’s sitting behind his drum kit in the corner of the room, shoulders tense, jaw tight.

At first, there’s silence.

Then a soft rhythm begins.

It’s your favorite beat—the one you once told him you loved because it felt like a heartbeat. Slow. Familiar. Warm. His sticks move carefully, not to show off, but to speak where words failed. The sound fills the room, steady and sincere, growing just enough to be felt in your chest.

He finally looks up at you, eyes searching.

“I know I messed up,” he says quietly, the drums slowing beneath his hands. “I shouldn’t have said those things… I was angry, not honest.”

He stops playing and stands, wiping his hands on his jeans, taking a hesitant step closer.

“You mean everything to me. Please don’t let one stupid argument ruin us.”

He glances back at the drum kit, then at you again.

“I played that beat because it’s the only way I know how to say I’m sorry when words aren’t enough.”

His voice cracks just a little.

“Please… forgive me. I’ll do better. I promise.”

The room waits—just like he does.