With Marco.
Alone.
I stand up fast enough to make myself dizzy. “Well I should go, too.”
“No, stay.” Marco’s voice is quiet but firm. And slow. Really, really, slow. “I insist.”
“I don’t know...”
“You can’t leave me hanging so soon. Please.” He gestures at my mug. “Would you prefer we sit somewhere quieter?”
There’s something in his eyes. Not pity. Not amusement, though there’s a trace of that. Something else. Something that looks almost like... interest?
No. I’m projecting. Definitely projecting.
But then I remember the wink. The “year-round” comment. The way he saved the meme.
“Only if there’s a phone that doesn’t accept AirDrops,” I hear myself say. “And we don’t speak Italian.”
Marco stands, and God, I’m overwhelmed by how tall he is again. Six-two of well-dressed danger standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“I can promise you that I want many more of those AirDrops of yours,” he says, and the way he says it makes it sound like he’s talking aboutsomething else entirely. Low, steady, with a vibration that I can almost feel rattling in my chest.
Then he adds, “But I can’t promise I won’t speak Italian.”
I smile despite myself. Despite everything. “Well in that case...”
I offer him my elbow, mimicking some old-fashioned gesture, expecting him to laugh it off.
Instead, he slides his hand into the crook of my arm like a gentleman from another century. His palm is warm against my skin, and I’m suddenly very aware of every point of contact between us.
“Lead the way,” he says.
So I do. Over his shoulder, he orders us another round. Another IPA for him, and a second Mule for me.
I don’t let myself think about how this is probably a terrible idea, or how he’s my brother’s best friend, or how the last time we were alone together we were under the influence of drugs.
I just walk, with his hand on my arm, toward the closest quiet corner.
Because why not?
Hook: “When you know it’s a bad idea but you do it anyway.”
Cut to me, walking into the fire.
Would’ve gone viral. Definitely would’ve gone viral.
But I’m not making content anymore.
I’m living it.
2
Jess
The quieter corner turns out to be a leather booth near the back, tucked away from the main bar traffic. Less hanging plant aesthetic, more “actual people might have conversations here” energy. Marco slides in across from me, and I’m suddenly very aware that this is happening.
We’re alone.
