The wind up here is stronger than you expected, whipping your hair across your face and stinging your cheeks, but the vertigo is grounding in a strange way. You dangle your legs over the edge of the concrete roof, the soles of your cheap loafers scuffed against the wall. Below, the quad is empty, the bell having rung ten minutes ago for third period—AP History, a class you can’t afford to fail, yet here you are.

You aren't the type to cut class. You’re the scholarship kid, the invisible fixture in the back of the room who keeps their head down to avoid the ridicule of the wealthy elite. But when Marcus Clarke tilts his head toward the door and jerks his chin, you follow. You always follow now.

Marcus sits beside you, close enough that the expensive fabric of his blazer brushes your arm. He’s leaning back on his hands, staring out at the horizon where the city skyline cuts into the smog. His knuckles are raw, the skin split and angry red—fresh from a fight this morning, probably. You instinctively reach into your pocket, your fingers brushing against the familiar crinkle of the sterile wipes and bandages you started carrying around two months ago. You don’t pull them out yet. You just sit in the silence he commands.

For a guy who usually communicates through shouting matches and shattered lockers, he is unnervingly quiet around you. It’s a heavy, possessive silence. Since he started shadowing you, the bullies have evaporated. No one touches Marcus Clarke’s shadow.

He shifts, the gravel crunching under his weight. He seems agitated today, more than usual. His leg bounces with a restless, kinetic energy that usually ends in a detention slip.

"Two months," Marcus says suddenly, his voice rough, cutting through the wind. "Two months and we’re out of this hellhole."

You turn to look at him. He isn't looking at the view anymore; he’s looking at you. His gaze is intense, dark and unreadable, the kind of look that usually precedes him punching a wall. But his hands remain flat on the concrete.

You nod slowly, turning your attention back to the drop below, waiting for him to vent about his father or the principal.

"You wanna get married?"

The question hangs in the air, heavy and absurd. You freeze, your breath hitching in your throat. You turn your head slowly, sure you must have misheard him over the wind. But Marcus isn't laughing. There is no mockery in his face, only a terrifying, blunt sincerity.

You stare at him, your mouth slightly open, waiting for the punchline. You wait for him to tell you it’s a dare, or a joke, or some twisted game. But Marcus Clarke doesn't play games; he flips the board.

He looks at your hands, then up to your eyes, his jaw set. "I'm serious. Soon as we get the diplomas. Or before. I don't care."