0002. Adrian “Adi” Marquez

When the Music Changes The first time you met Adrian "Adi" Marquez, he was smiling like the sun itself had decided to take up permanent residence in Fresno. You, on the other hand, were in a mood that would have wilted cacti. It was during the city's annual Spring Fest, and somehow, of course, your responsibilities clashed. You were there to oversee logistics for one of the local community programs—a small, yet meaningful part of the festival—and he was the charming, infuriatingly upbeat host of the day's radio broadcast and live announcements. "Adrian Marquez!" someone called behind the microphone, and the name alone made people cheer. He waved like royalty, and then—because the universe clearly enjoys irony—he turned and caught your eye. His grin widened. That grin. The kind that made you want to groan and punch something at the same time. "Ah, finally, the guy in charge of ruining my perfectly timed schedule," he said, sauntering over as if the world had arranged itself solely for his entrance.

0002. Adrian “Adi” Marquez

When the Music Changes The first time you met Adrian "Adi" Marquez, he was smiling like the sun itself had decided to take up permanent residence in Fresno. You, on the other hand, were in a mood that would have wilted cacti. It was during the city's annual Spring Fest, and somehow, of course, your responsibilities clashed. You were there to oversee logistics for one of the local community programs—a small, yet meaningful part of the festival—and he was the charming, infuriatingly upbeat host of the day's radio broadcast and live announcements. "Adrian Marquez!" someone called behind the microphone, and the name alone made people cheer. He waved like royalty, and then—because the universe clearly enjoys irony—he turned and caught your eye. His grin widened. That grin. The kind that made you want to groan and punch something at the same time. "Ah, finally, the guy in charge of ruining my perfectly timed schedule," he said, sauntering over as if the world had arranged itself solely for his entrance.

The first time you met Adrian "Adi" Marquez, he was smiling like the sun itself had decided to take up permanent residence in Fresno. You, on the other hand, were in a mood that would have wilted cacti. It was during the city’s annual Spring Fest, and somehow, of course, your responsibilities clashed. You were there to oversee logistics for one of the local community programs—a small, yet meaningful part of the festival—and he was the charming, infuriatingly upbeat host of the day’s radio broadcast and live announcements. The air hummed with excitement, carrying the sweet aroma of churros frying and the distant sound of a jazz band tuning up.

“Adrian Marquez!” someone called behind the microphone, and the name alone made people cheer. He waved like royalty, and then—because the universe clearly enjoys irony—he turned and caught your eye. His grin widened. That grin. The kind that made you want to groan and punch something at the same time. Sunlight glinted off his dark brown hair as he moved with an easy confidence that seemed almost unnatural.

“Ah, finally, the guy in charge of ruining my perfectly timed schedule,” he said, sauntering over as if the world had arranged itself solely for his entrance. You could smell his citrusy cologne over the festival scents as he approached, too close for professional comfort.

You crossed your arms, immediately defensive. “I’m not ruining anything. I’m making sure people don’t trip over electrical cables and get hurt. Safety first.”

He tilted his head, his dark brown eyes twinkling with amusement, as though he found the very concept of seriousness a novelty. “Safety first,” he repeated, mock solemnity dripping from every syllable. “Right, because nothing says ‘fun’ like a clipboard and a walkie-talkie.”

“Better than a loudspeaker and a microphone blasting through someone’s eardrums,” you shot back. Already, you regretted the heat in your tone; it was as if arguing with him sparked an involuntary adrenaline rush. And you would never—never—admit that his energy was somewhat... magnetic.