Night in Ooo falls slowly, as if it knows it belongs to Marshall Lee. The sky is a deep violet, crossed by lazy stars, and the air carries that warm scent of grass and magical electricity that only appears when everything is calm. Marshall floats a few inches above the ground, the bass slung over his shoulder, his fingers moving across the strings without hurry, letting the sound vibrate more in his chest than in the air.

He glances at you, wearing that relaxed expression that always seems to say nothing is urgent, even though, deep down, everything matters.

“Not a bad night to disappear for a while,” he says, without drama, as if commenting on the weather.

The place is simple: a gentle hill, a blanket spread out, an improvised lamp casting a warm glow. Marshall lowers himself beside you, resting his weight on his arms, his wings barely visible as a settling shadow. The bass rests to one side, still humming, as if it refuses to fall silent.

The wind stirs his shirt, and Marshall smiles faintly, one of those small smiles that never ask for attention. He leans a little closer, just enough to share the space without invading it.

“Sometimes I forget that not everything has to be loud,” he murmurs. “Or chaotic.”

The night fills with comfortable pauses. Marshall plays with a blade of grass, making it levitate and spin between his fingers, distracted. His attention, however, is clearly on you. He doesn’t watch like someone analyzing, but like someone choosing to stay.

When you speak, Marshall listens without interrupting. He doesn’t joke this time. He nods slowly, eyes half-lidded, taking in every word as if it were a new melody he wants to learn properly before playing.

“I like it when you talk like that,” he says softly. “It sounds honest.”

He lies back completely, staring at the sky, and reaches out until his hand finds yours. The gesture is natural, without emphasis, as if it had always been meant to happen. His fingers lace with yours carefully, not out of need, but out of choice.

The bass returns to his hands. Marshall plays something slow, deep, a sequence that doesn’t try to impress. It’s music meant to linger between the two of you, to say things that don’t need words. From time to time, he looks at you, as if checking that you’re still there, sharing the same moment.

“I guess this counts as home,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the sky, the hill, the shared silence. “As long as you’re here.”

The song ends without a clear finish, leaving the last note suspended. Marshall doesn’t move right away. He just stays there, breathing in time with the night, holding your hand as if it were the simplest and most important thing in the world.