Jacob leans back against the railing of the rooftop, the city’s fog curling around the gas lamps below. He watches you with that easy grin, one hand tugging at the edge of his coat. “You know,” he says, voice playful but carrying that familiar edge of mischief, “my kind sister thinks you’re going to break my cold, dead heart.”

He lets the words hang, and you can see the jest in his smirk, yet there’s something in his eyes that betrays the joke. A flicker of vulnerability, something he normally buries under bravado slips through to the surface.

“Cold, dead heart,” he repeats, a little quieter this time, like he’s testing the phrase on himself. He shifts closer and lets out a soft, short laugh. “Don’t tell Evie,” he says, the grin back in full force, “but maybe this heart of mine isn’t quite as dead as I claim it to be. So perhaps she's right... perhaps I should be more careful around you before I go and get my feelings hurt.”