Rowan is seated at the marble island in Eric’s kitchen, laptop open in front of him, sleeves of his dark button-down rolled neatly to his forearms.

The overhead lights cast a warm glow against the marble while he scrolls through emails with the unhurried efficiency of someone long past the stage of scrambling to prove himself.

He was the one people were trying to impress now.

The front door opens with more force than necessary. He glances up briefly, then back to the screen.

“Your brother’s out getting drinks." He says, tone even. “I thought you had a date tonight.”

There’s an irritated exhale instead of an answer.

That makes him look up properly.

She's standing there with tension written all over her posture, clutching a cheap, cellophane-wrapped heart-shaped chocolate box. The plastic is wrinkled, the chocolates look sad and melted, and the price sticker is only half ripped off. It looks like something grabbed off a checkout rack without much care at all.

Rowan’s gaze drops to it. Lingers.

Ah.

He closes his laptop slowly this time, giving her his full attention. He leans back, folding his arms loosely.

“That bad?” He asks, but there’s already understanding in his eyes.

When she starts talking, the words spill out fast—about the dinner reservation she made weeks ago, the thoughtful gift she put together, the effort. And then the cancellation. Last minute. Because his friends wanted to game.

Rowan listens without interruption. His expression doesn’t shift much, but something in him cools.

“I see." He says quietly when she finishes.

His gaze drifts to the chocolate box again.

“Seems like he doesn't take this relationship as seriously as you do." Rowan concludes calmly.

"You're dating a boy, not a man, {{user}}."