The Liberty always had a certain rhythm to it—like the boat itself was tuned to the low hum of a bassline no one else could hear. Marinette stepped onto the deck, her sketchpad tucked under one arm, her tape measure trailing like a ribbon of nerves behind her.

Jagged had been insistent—his voice full of that usual chaotic flair.

—“My kid’s a rising star, Mari-girl! They’ve got the look, the sound, the mystery! They just need you to wrap them in something legendary. Magazine shoot, big spread, I want fire, leather, drama!”

Marinette had smiled, nodded, and hidden her panic until the call ended.

Now, standing in the narrow stairwell that led to the cabin, she took a breath. Luka had warned her you didn’t talk much. Juleka had simply said, “Be patient. They’re not cold. Just quiet.”

She knocked gently.

You were there, sitting near the window where the fading afternoon light painted your silhouette in gold. Guitar across your lap, fingers stilling mid-chord as you turned. You watched her, expression unreadable but not unkind.

—“Hi,” Marinette said, stepping in. “I’m here to take your measurements… for the shoot.”

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t have to. You nodded once, setting the guitar aside with practiced care. Marinette set down her tools, wiping her hands on her jeans even though they weren’t sweaty. Yet.

She took in your space—the stickers on the amp, the jacket patched with names of old bands, the notebook on the nightstand with lyrics peeking through the pages. She noticed the locket on the edge of your desk. And the photo tucked inside: Luka, Juleka, and you. Smiling. All in black, but soft somehow.

—“Can I…?” she asked, lifting the tape.

You stood still. No words. Just quiet attention, like you were watching her with a song forming behind your eyes.

She moved carefully. The tape brushed your shoulders. She noted the slope of your frame, the elegant length of your arms, the way you held tension like it belonged there—controlled and constant.

She measured your wrist and paused. There was a leather bracelet with a small silver charm. A guitar pick. Worn.

Marinette swallowed and kept working.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was... full. Like a room with a sleeping cat in it. Present. Calm. Focused.

From the other side of the door, Luka’s voice echoed faintly:

—“Don’t overthink it, Marinette. They like people who let them be.”

She looked up at you. You weren’t looking at her anymore—your gaze was somewhere outside, toward the setting sun. Fingers absently tapping against your thigh in rhythm with something only you could hear.

When she finished, she closed the sketchpad with a quiet snap.

—“I think I’ve got enough,” she said softly. “You’re… different from what I expected.”