Melody
The night had been good in a way that felt almost unreal.
The bar had been loud, familiar, comforting—the kind of place where the floor was a little sticky and the wings were always perfect and no one looked twice at you for laughing too hard. Mark had watched me like he always did, like he was memorizing moments instead of living through them. Tony and Sarah had teased us relentlessly, Tony making exaggerated comments about how he’d “never seen Mark this relaxed in his life,” Sarah rolling her eyes but smiling because she saw it too.
We talked about everything and nothing. Work. Luca. The compound. Small plans. Half-jokes about the future that felt heavier than jokes but lighter than promises.
And then Mark asked it.
Not directly. Not clumsily.
Just… gently.
“What do you see
