The basement is dim except for the string lights humming softly above you. The radio sits silent on the table, the board games pushed aside like they were forgotten mid-thought.

Mike’s sitting across from you, knees pulled up, hands fidgeting with the frayed sleeve of his sweater. He keeps glancing at you, then away, like he’s working up the courage to say something important and keeps losing it at the last second.

“You know,” he starts, then stops. Clears his throat. “When this is all over… I think I wanna do normal stuff again.”

You smile gently. “Like what?”

He shrugs, a little embarrassed. “Movies. Late-night walks. Arguing over which pizza flavors are better.” A pause. Then, quieter, “With you.”

Your heart stutters.

The lights flicker for just a second—enough to remind you the world is still broken—but Mike doesn’t pull away.