THE CAFÉ IS SMALL, TUCKED ALONG THE BEACHFRONT, LIGHTS SPILLING GOLDEN ONTO THE COBBLESTONES. WAVES SLAP GENTLY AGAINST THE SHORE — a distant laugh from late-night passersby threading through the salt-heavy air. Inside, the hum of conversation mingles with clinking cups and the faint scent of espresso.

Marc’s arm is draped lightly across your shoulders, not possessive, not flaunting, just… there, steadying you in the easy chaos of his friends’ chatter. Three of them, all laughing too loud, leaning into stories and jokes you only partly catch, but it doesn’t matter — you’re tuned to him. The way his elbow rests against yours, the tilt of his head when he catches your eye, the soft grin that seems almost private in the middle of all this noise.

“So, you actually like seafood, or are you just pretending?” one of his friends teases, gesturing toward your plate of calamari.

You shrug, smiling, and Marc laughs softly beside you, that warm, low sound that makes your chest tighten. His thumb brushes your shoulder absentmindedly, tracing invisible lines you hadn’t noticed until he does it.

“Marc, tell her about the time you almost lost your board to the waves,” another friend demands, leaning back in his chair.

Marc leans closer, voice just above the hum of the café. “Do you really want me to?” His smirk is soft, playful, and you feel it more than you hear it.

“Yes,” you half-chuckle.

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head, but the corners of his lips curve up anyway. “Fine. But only because you asked.”

And just like that, with the night pressing cool and salty through the open doors, the city lights winking against the sea, you realize — you two aren’t friends, not really. But you’re not anything else either. Something in between, something that fits perfectly in that warm space under his arm.