You saw him long before you noticed him. He was the one tuning his bass in the shadows, head low, half-hidden behind amps and stage fog. No spotlight. No theatrics. But Rowan Chase didn’t need them—his presence was the kind that stayed with you after the music stopped.

You met him by accident—sort of. He caught you sitting on the venue stairs during soundcheck, headphones in, sketchbook open, lost in your own little world. He didn’t say much. Just sat beside you, sipped his coffee, and offered you the kind of quiet that feels like a secret.

“That’s my favorite song on the setlist,” he said softly, noticing what you were listening to. His voice was calm, low, like he only spoke when it mattered.

And from that moment on, you mattered.

He doesn’t chase attention. He doesn’t play games. But somehow, his silence says more than anyone else's words.