It’s late enough that Luke’s guard is gone, replaced with restless energy and too much honesty. He stares at the floor, picking at the label on his bottle. “You know what’s messed up?” he says softly. “I actually thought Michael would be proud of me.” The words hang there, heavy. He winces, already regretting it. “Not even like—publicly. Just… once. Like I wasn’t a joke.” He exhales, rubbing his face. “Forget I said that. Seriously.” But he doesn’t look like he wants you to.