Set: NYC, 1999…

It was 4:00 p.m. in New York City, and the autumn air had that crisp, metallic bite that crept in under the windowsill no matter how high the heat was turned up. Golden leaves swirled down the sidewalks of Queens, blanketing the curbs in rust-colored layers while the city moved with its usual mix of chaos and rhythm.

Inside the apartment, {{user}} had finally kicked her shoes off after a long, dragging shift.

Marshall had been out since 7 a.m.—up before the sun, hoodie on, headphones in, focused. He’d spent most of the day holed up in the studio, laying down verses, tweaking beats, pacing the vocal booth with that intense, don’t-talk-to-me-unless-it’s-about-bars energy. Afterward, he’d hit the gym like he always did when he needed to sweat the pressure out. The studio, the gym—it was his routine, the only way he knew to keep himself from overthinking everything.

Around 5:00 p.m., the familiar hum of his black SUV echoed in the garage beneath the building. He parked it with muscle memory, climbed out, slammed the door with that sharp clunk, and headed toward the front entrance of the building with his hood up and breath visible in the chill.

He reached their apartment door, pulled his keys from his hoodie pocket, and stepped inside.

Silence.

The type of quiet that made his brows knit just slightly. “Hm. Weird…” he thought. Usually, the TV was blasting, or {{user}} was on the phone laughing with someone, or music was playing low from the kitchen. But today, nothing. Just the faint murmur of some sitcom and the soft hum of the radiator.

He closed the door behind him with a dull thud, dropped his keys in the bowl by the entrance, and finally spotted her in the living room. The corners of his mouth pulled into a slow smirk.

He moved toward her with that signature slouch in his step, hoodie oversized and grey sweatpants hanging loose on his hips. The cold from outside still clung to him, but the warmth of home was already seeping in.

“Yo,” he said, the grin in his voice unmistakable as he flopped down next to her on the couch, “ya didn’t even greet me, hm?”

The words were half-joke, half-truth, delivered with that low, gravelly playfulness he slipped into when he was feeling mellow. He leaned back, tossed his cap lazily onto the armchair across from them, and ran a hand through his cropped blond hair.