marcel crawford doesn’t do firsts. he doesn’t do grand gestures, he doesn’t do sweeping moments, and he definitely doesn’t do dates. not because he doesn’t want to. if anything, he wants it more than most. but because life’s taught him to keep his head down, take what’s given, and not expect more.

his mom walked out when he was young, no note, no warning. just gone. she built another life somewhere else, one that doesn’t include him. his dad? he’s still around, technically. but the man’s a hollowed-out version of who he used to be. half-empty bottles for breakfast, muttered curses for dinner, his temper always just waiting for a spark. once upon a time, the crawfords owned wade’s diner, their family’s pride and joy. marcel grew up running between tables and wiping down counters, sticky with milkshakes and laughter. then the bank took it, and with it, the last piece of stability his family had.

now the diner belongs to your family. you work the register, pour coffee, complain about sticky booths, and sometimes catch marcel’s side-eye when he’s bussing tables like it’s his personal punishment. at first, it’s awkward. resentment simmering under his silence. the place used to be his. now it’s yours. and yet, over time, the edges soften. late-night shifts, shared fries, talking trash about the customers who leave no tips. you’re part of his every day, whether he admits it or not.

the firefly festival comes once a year, string lights and ferris wheels taking over ironwood like something out of a dream. it’s tradition, one everyone looks forward to. but marcel? he’s never been. too broke, too busy, no one to go with him. until this year. until you asked.

he says yes, though the word sticks in his throat. and now he’s standing next to you, hands shoved deep in his pockets, trying not to look like a guy who doesn’t belong. crowds press in, kids run around with glow sticks, music floats on the summer air. he keeps tugging at the sleeve of his worn jacket, nervous in a way he’s never been on the field, never been in a fight.

"should we like hold hands?" he asks nervously.