He led me up the condo's back stairs to the rooftop.
The wind was stronger there, the city glowing gold beneath the lavender sky. I stood for a while before sitting beside him.
"You always come up here?"
"When I need to breathe."
We sat in silence until the sun faded. Then he said, "I was scared yesterday. I've never felt that kind of anger. It scared me—what I almost did."
I realized he'd been scared for me, not of himself.
"Thank you," I said.
After a pause, I asked, "Why do you keep showing up?"
"Because no one else ever did for me."
I leaned, my shoulder brushing his. He didn't move away.
"Can I ask something weird?" he said.
"Weirder than usual?"
"Probably. Have you ever thought about what love is supposed to feel like?"
I blinked. Dangerous territory.
"I guess... Why?"
"I've never said 'I love you' to anyone. Not even close. I don't think it should be thrown around like spare change. I want mine to be real. All in. My first to be my last."
I stared at him. It wasn't dramatic, but it hit harder than any confession.
"Is this your way of saying something?" I whispered.
"You already know the answer."
Silence—full, heavy with truth.
"I don't want to be someone you regret waiting for."
"Then don't run," he said.
We sat under the darkening sky, not touching—but knowing something had shifted. Something real.
A drop landed on my cheek. Then another.
I tilted my head up just as the first shiver of rain brushed across the rooftop. The city blurred beneath a thin silver curtain, the gold of the streetlights shimmering through it.
Syron glanced at the sky, his jaw tightening. "We should go."
I shook my head. "Not yet."
"Mace—"
"I want to stay." My voice was quiet, but certain. "Just... for a bit."
He hesitated, like he was weighing whether to argue. Then he let out a slow breath and didn't move.
The drizzle turned into rain, cool drops seeping into my hair, trailing down my neck. My shirt clung to my skin, but I didn't care. For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel heavy. The sound of it filled the air—soft at first, then steady, a rhythm that drowned out everything else.
I stood, stepping closer to the ledge. Lifted my arms slightly. Let it wash over me. The air smelled of wet concrete and something clean, like the world was rinsing itself off.
For a moment, I forgot about last night. About whispers, questions, scars I still carried. The rain made them smaller, dissolving them into something I could almost let go of.
I closed my eyes, smiled faintly, and let the water run over my face.
When I opened them, Syron was still sitting there—but his gaze was fixed on me, steady and unreadable. Not in the way people look when they're curious. In the way they look when they're holding something back.
The rain darkened his hair, ran down his jaw, traced the curve of his throat. He didn't look away.
And I wondered—again—if I was imagining it. That quiet pull. That truth he wouldn't name.
The rooftop was ours alone, wrapped in rain and sky. I turned back toward the city, letting the storm hide the way my chest tightened.
But I could still feel his eyes on me.
Like he was memorizing this version of me—unarmored, unafraid.
Like he was afraid to blink.
The downpour slowed, softening into a faint drizzle. My hair was plastered to my face, my clothes damp and clinging, but my chest felt strangely light.
I finally looked back at him. "Guess we should head in before we catch a cold."
Syron stood without a word, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over my shoulders. It was warm despite the rain, carrying the faint scent of him—clean soap and something deeper I couldn't name.
We walked toward the stairwell, the sound of our wet shoes slapping against the concrete. The door creaked when he pulled it open, and the echo of the rain outside followed us in.
Inside, the air was warmer, but the space between us felt heavier. He walked just a half step behind me, close enough that I could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing.
When we reached the landing, I turned to thank him—but the words caught in my throat.
He was looking at me again. Not hurried. Not distracted. Just... there. His eyes traced my face in a way that made me feel like he could see the parts of me I tried so hard to keep hidden.
My hand tightened on the jacket collar. "What?"
"Nothing," he said, but his voice was low, almost rough.
It wasn't nothing.
I wanted to ask. I wanted to demand the truth, to peel back whatever was behind that look. But I didn't.
Instead, I walked past him, pretending I didn't feel my pulse in my ears. Pretending I didn't notice the way his gaze followed me all the way down.
And maybe—just maybe—pretending was easier than hearing the answer.
I reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the quieter hallway. The hum of the rain outside was muffled here, replaced by the distant chatter of voices somewhere down the corridor.
Syron's footsteps followed, slow and unhurried. I didn't have to turn to know he was there.
When I reached my door, I hesitated with the key in hand. "Thanks... for earlier."
He didn't say "you're welcome." Instead, after a pause, he asked, "Will you be okay?"
I swallowed. "Yeah. Just a little cold."
But he didn't move. And neither did I. The silence between us stretched, thin but unbroken, like the fragile moment before rain falls again.
Finally, he stepped back. "Get some rest, Mace."
I nodded, slipping inside and shutting the door before I could change my mind.
Leaning against the wood, I let out a shaky breath. The sound of the rain filled the space again through the half-open window. I shrugged off his jacket, holding it in my hands longer than I needed to, feeling its weight, the warmth that wasn't mine.
It was reckless to keep it, I knew. But tonight, with my skin still tingling from the rain and my mind caught on the look in his eyes... I couldn't bring myself to give it back.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
The jacket was draped over the back of my chair, still damp around the edges from the rain. I kept catching whiffs of it every time I shifted—faint soap, something warm underneath.
I told myself I should hang it somewhere to dry. But my hands stayed wrapped around my mug instead, the steam fogging my glasses as I stared out the window.
The city looked softer under the rain, lights blurring in puddles, traffic moving slow like everything had agreed to hush for a while.
Up on that rooftop, I'd felt it—freedom. Not from anyone, but from myself. From the constant need to guard, to measure, to keep my heart wrapped up in something bulletproof.
And Syron... he'd just stood there. Watching me like I was something worth remembering.
I didn't know if that look meant what I thought it meant. But it scared me how much I wanted it to.
I leaned my forehead against the glass, listening to the steady patter outside. For the first time in weeks, my chest didn't feel so heavy.