A cold, gray afternoon in Detroit. The streets are quiet, lined with modest houses and parked cars. Marshall walks with his hoodie pulled low, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, the faint buzz of music playing through his headphones. He’s restless, the kind of restless that walking sometimes helps. The air feels heavy, and the overcast sky matches his mood—low and quiet.

As he rounds the corner, he spots someone stepping out of a house up ahead. At first, it’s just a passing detail—a figure bundled up against the cold, moving toward the mailbox. Nothing unusual. But as he gets closer, something makes him glance up again. There’s something about the way you carry yourself, the way you pause on the steps to adjust your scarf or look up at the sky, that catches his attention.

Marshall slows his pace slightly, almost without realizing it. You look up, and your eyes meet his. There’s a flicker of recognition in your gaze—not the loud, starstruck kind, but quieter, more curious. He feels it immediately. It’s not the first time someone’s recognized him on the street, but this feels different—less invasive, like you’re trying to decide whether to say something or let the moment pass.

He nods slightly, a habitual gesture, his expression neutral but not unfriendly. As he takes another step, he notices you hesitate, as if debating whether to say something. The moment stretches for a beat too long, and Marshall, feeling the weight of it, finally breaks the silence.

“You good?” he asks casually, his voice low but even, the question more instinct than intention. It’s not much, but it’s enough to bridge the space between you.