The rooftop is still warm from the day, heat clinging to the concrete in a way that makes it almost feel alive beneath the blanket I laid out. I press my palm against it for a second, testing it, then glance over at you.
“You’ll survive,” I murmur, a faint smirk tugging at my lips. “I even brought a pillow. I’m not completely heartless.”
You huff—soft, offended in that way you do when you’re not actually offended—and drop down beside me anyway, the blanket rustling as you settle. I watch you more than I should. It’s… embarrassingly easy to get distracted when it’s you.
The sky above us is painted in slow-moving clouds, drifting lazily like they have nowhere else to be. For a moment, I try to focus on them. For a moment.
“…That one looks like a ship,” you say, pointing upward, your voice lighter than the evening breeze.
I tilt my head, following your finger. “That looks nothing like a ship.”
“It does. You just lack imagination.”
I glance at you instead of the sky. “Or maybe I just don’t see things that aren’t there.”
You turn your head toward me, narrowing your eyes, and I know that look—it means you’re about to argue. I don’t give you the chance.
“I do see one thing,” I add quietly.
You blink. “…What?”
I shift closer, just enough that our shoulders brush under the blanket. “You. That’s enough.”
There it is—that tiny pause. That flicker in your expression I’ve learned to recognize. The one where your words trip over themselves for a second before you recover.
“…You’re being unfair,” you mutter, but your voice softens.
“Am I?” I reach for the snacks beside us, opening the container just to give my hands something to do. “I brought food. A blanket. A view. And I’m still the problem.”
“You are the problem,” you insist, but you lean into me anyway, your head resting lightly against my shoulder.
Right.
I let out a quiet breath, something settling warm and steady in my chest as I shift the pillow behind you, guiding you down more comfortably. My fingers linger for a second longer than necessary at your arm.
“You’ll get cold,” I say, even though you’re already wrapped up.
“I won’t if you stay close.”
There’s no hesitation in your voice. No second-guessing. Just that simple certainty. It does something to me.
“…You say that like I was planning to leave.”
You tilt your face up toward me, close—too close for my thoughts to stay organized. “Were you?”
“No.” It comes out quieter than I intended. I don’t move away. Neither do you.
The city hums faintly below us, distant and irrelevant. Up here, it’s just the two of us, the sky, the slow drift of clouds… and the way your fingers lightly curl into the fabric of my sleeve like you’re anchoring yourself. Or maybe anchoring me.
“…You’re staring again,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“You’re not even trying to hide it.”
“I’m not.”
Your lips part like you’re about to say something else, but you don’t. The silence stretches—soft, charged, fragile in a way that makes it feel important.
I lift my hand, brushing a stray strand of your hair back, letting my fingers trace just barely along your cheek. You lean into it. Of course you do. That’s all it takes.
I close the distance slowly—giving you time, giving you space to pull away if you want to. You don’t.
Your hand shifts, catching lightly at my shirt as our lips meet—soft at first, almost cautious. The kind of kiss that lingers, that asks instead of takes. Then you press closer.
…Yeah. That’s my answer.
My other hand comes up instinctively, resting at your waist beneath the blanket, pulling you just a little nearer as the kiss deepens—still gentle, but no longer uncertain.
When we finally pull back, it’s not far. Just enough to breathe. Your forehead rests against mine.
“…Clouds,” you murmur, a little breathless.
I huff out a quiet laugh. “Right. We were doing that.”
You smile—small, satisfied—and nudge your nose against mine. “You distracted me.”
“That sounds like your fault.”
“You kissed me.”
“You didn’t stop me.”
“…I didn’t want to.”
There it is again—that honesty. That soft, unguarded thing you give me like it’s nothing. I study your face for a second, memorizing it without meaning to.
“…Good,” I say quietly.
You settle back down against me, this time more fully, your head resting on the pillow but your body tucked into my side, one arm draped across me like you’ve decided I belong there. I don’t argue. I pull the blanket up a little higher around you instead, adjusting it carefully.
“…Hey,” you murmur after a moment.
“Hm?”
“That one looks like a heart.”
I glance up at the clouds again, then back at you. “…Now who’s seeing things that aren’t there?”
You smile without opening your eyes. “It’s there.”
I watch you for a second longer, then lean down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “…Yeah,” I murmur. “I see it.”
You don’t fall asleep right away.
I can tell from the way your fingers keep idly tracing patterns against my shirt—absentminded, soft, like you’re halfway between thinking and drifting.
“…You’re not tired,” I murmur, glancing down at you.
A quiet hum. “I am. Just… don’t wanna sleep yet.”
I shift slightly, adjusting the blanket around you again, more out of habit than necessity. My hand comes to rest over yours, stilling those wandering fingers for a second before I lace them together instead.
“You’ll regret that in the morning.”
“You’ll deal with me in the morning,” you correct, eyes still closed, a faint smile playing at your lips.
…That earns a quiet exhale of amusement.
“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t anyway.”
You squeeze my hand at that—small, but deliberate.
The clouds keep drifting above us, slower now, fading into the deeper blue of night. One by one, faint stars start to push through, barely visible against the city’s glow. You notice too.
Your head tilts slightly, pressing closer into my shoulder. “…Stay like this a bit longer.”
“I’m not going anywhere, starlight.”
The nickname slips out softer than I intended. It always does with you. You go quiet after that. Not the thinking kind of quiet. Not the playful kind. The comfortable kind.
Your breathing evens out first. Then your grip loosens just slightly, your body settling more fully into mine as the last bit of tension leaves you.
…There it is. I glance down. You’re asleep. A small, almost imperceptible smile lingers on your lips like you took it with you. For a second, I just watch you.
It’s… dangerously easy to get used to this. To the weight of you against me, to the quiet trust in the way you fall asleep without hesitation, like you’ve already decided you’re safe here.
Like you’ve decided I’m safe. My thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles, slow and absent, careful not to wake you. “…You always do this,” I murmur under my breath. “Make it hard to think about anything else.”
You don’t answer, obviously. But you shift a little closer anyway, your face pressing into the crook of my neck like you heard something you liked.
…Right.
I let out a quiet breath, leaning my head back against the pillow, eyes flicking up to the sky again. The clouds are thinner now. The stars clearer. Still, I barely look at them.
After a moment, I lean down slightly, pressing a gentle kiss to your hair—soft enough not to disturb you. “Sleep,” I whisper. “I’ve got you.”
And I stay exactly like that.
One arm around you beneath the blanket, the other loosely holding your hand, keeping you close as the night settles in—long after the snacks are forgotten, long after the rooftop cools.
I don’t move.
Not when the air gets colder. Not when my arm starts to go numb. Not even when I know we should probably go inside.
Because you’re here.
And somehow… that’s enough to make the whole world feel quiet.
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