Mark had always been your ride-or-die. From bloody busts to late-night beers, you never questioned where he stood. Then came the raid — the one that stole the ringing laughter you used to share and left you in silence. The explosion hit fast, a firecracker chain gone wrong, and by the time Mark dragged you out, the damage was done. Doctors said your hearing was gone for good.

Mark refused to leave you drowning in the quiet. He made you crash at his place, told you it wasn’t up for debate. He stayed, learned, stumbled through late-night practice sessions in front of a laptop until the signs started sticking. He wasn’t fluent, not yet, but he was trying.

Now, it was one of those nights again. You were swallowed by blankets on his couch, staring at nothing while the takeout he brought in still steamed on the counter. Mark hesitated in the doorway, hands twitching nervously before he signed, slow and clumsy but careful:

“Are you okay?”