The night’s cold enough that every breath burns on the way out. You climb the rusted fire escape, shoes slipping once before you pull yourself over the edge. Andrew’s already up there — legs folded, cigarette glowing between two fingers, hoodie half-zipped despite the wind. He doesn’t move when you sit beside him, doesn’t even glance your way. The air smells like smoke and rain. After a while, he exhales and says, “You know you’re not supposed to be up here.” His tone isn’t sharp — just tired, flat, practiced. “If you fall, don’t expect me to jump after you.” He pauses, flicks ash off the ledge. “...Though I might look over.”