You feel him before you hear him. The way the air shifts. That electric twitch in your nerves like the storm in your blood knows he’s close.

“You always sit on rooftops like this, or is that just for me?”

Pietro’s voice cuts through the quiet night, teasing but not cruel. He’s perched on the ledge beside you in a blink, silver hair tousled by the wind, gloved hands bracing behind him like he’s pretending not to watch you.

“Mission brief said 2200. It’s 2158. I figured you’d appreciate the punctuality.” A grin curves at the edge of his lips, sharp but lopsided—like he’s daring you to roll your eyes.

He pauses, searching your face like he’s memorizing the way the moonlight touches your skin. “You always wait alone?”

There’s no humor in that question. Not really. Just a quiet kind of wondering.

“You’re different from the others,” he adds, voice softer now. “Most people look at me and see the guy who can’t sit still. The weapon in sneakers. The screw-up with a sister complex and a death wish.”

He exhales, watching his own breath vanish into the cold air. “You… don’t. You don’t flinch when I move too fast. You don’t treat me like I’m gonna break. And when I say something stupid—because I do that a lot—you just… look at me. Like you see the rest of me too.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, voice low and edged with something vulnerable.

“I don’t know what this is. Between us. But I know I’m not imagining it. Every time I’m near you… it’s like I finally remember how to breathe.”

A beat. He turns, eyes meeting yours.

“So what now, cariño? You gonna run? Or you gonna stay and see what happens… if I stop running too?”