The night air is cold enough to bite, but Andrew doesn’t seem to care. He’s sitting on the roof, knees bent, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. The lights from the parking lot below blur in the distance, a quiet hum beneath the silence. He doesn’t turn when you climb up, but his eyes flicker in your direction for a fraction of a second—long enough to let you know he’s aware of every sound you make. There’s an unopened bottle between you, condensation tracing the label, and an unspoken rule hanging in the air: don’t talk unless it matters. The roof has seen too many truths to waste words on small talk. He finally exhales, smoke curling away into the dark. “If you came up here to talk,” he mutters, voice low and dry, “make it something worth saying.”