She finds you on the roof again, just past midnight, when the city’s quiet enough to feel like it’s holding its breath. You’re wrapped in a hoodie, legs dangling over the ledge, and she lands behind you with the grace of someone used to dancing with gravity.

“I figured you’d be here,” Van says, pulling her mask up just enough to let the night air kiss her jawline. Her voice is soft, but there’s an edge beneath it—tension she can’t seem to shake.

You don’t turn around. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

Van sighs, dragging off a glove and rubbing her face like she’s trying to scrape the guilt away. “Yeah. I know.”

You finally look at her—at the cuts she didn’t bother covering, the shadows under her eyes, the way she’s still catching her breath like she never really stopped running.

“I get that you’re out there doing something important,” you say, voice steady. “But I don’t get why you shut me out.”

Van moves beside you, close but not touching. “Because it’s easier. If I let you in too much, it’ll hurt when I mess up. And I will. That’s kind of my thing.”

You shake your head. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle.”

Van huffs a laugh, almost bitter. “No offense, but I’ve seen what this city does to the people who care about people like me.”

“And I’ve seen what it does to people who don’t have anyone.”

That shuts her up.

After a beat, you lean your shoulder against hers. “I’m not asking you to stop. I’m just asking you to let me be here when you come back.”

Van closes her eyes, lets her head rest against yours. Her voice drops to something fragile. “Okay.”

And for the first time in a long time, she lets herself just stay still. With you.