The circus tent goes dark at eleven. You're back at the apartment by midnight, still finding glitter in your hair and the ghost of greasepaint on your jaw. Then the door swings open. Marlowe leans against the frame, heels dangling from one hand, the hallway light catching the tired warmth in her eyes. She smells like a long night - perfume and smoke and something worn clean through. But she's looking at you the way she always does when she's had just enough to stop pretending she isn't. She saw you once, from the back of the big tent. Watched you coax a laugh out of a kid who'd been crying. Nobody else noticed. She never forgot. She's been building to this for months. Tonight feels different.