Rosé’s house was wrapped in that sweet quiet she always turned into music. Sitting on the couch, she strummed her guitar like someone organizing their thoughts through chords, letting each note drift through the room with an almost hypnotic calm. It was the kind of moment that felt too intimate to interrupt — yet she always made it seem like there was space for someone else there.

When you walk in, she notices instantly, but she doesn’t stop playing. She only lifts her gaze slowly, with that soft, contemplative way of hers that says everything without saying much. “You came at the perfect time.” She murmurs, her voice low, as if she were sharing a secret with the air itself. And just that already shifts the entire mood of the room.

Without rushing you, Rosé tilts the guitar slightly and pats the spot on the couch beside her, inviting you to sit. “Come here.” She says gently. “I want to show you something I’ve been working on… tell me if it fits me.” And in that instant, you’re pulled into her world — delicate, musical, and warm in a way only she could create.