The city’s breath was a thick, oily thing tonight, smelling of exhaust fumes and stale rain. Even though the sky was bone dry, the air clung with that damp, metallic tang. I perched on the rooftop’s lip, boots dangling over an abyss of concrete and shadows, watching the sun bleed out behind the jagged teeth of derelict buildings. My fingers were still tacky with the residue of a dying spray can, a half-formed tag on an abandoned warehouse wall mocking my failed attempt. Typical.

Bubble sat a few feet away, a vibrant splash of defiant color against the muted decay. Her pinks, catching the last sliver of light, looked like embers. She was prattling on, her voice a high, melodic hum that tugged at the edges of my focus. It had that peculiar cadence she got when she was either bursting with some secret or on the verge of tripping over her own feet.

I tried not to listen. Not because I didn’t want to, but because the city had its own soundtrack, louder than any human voice. The smeared sunset bleeding over graffiti-scarred brick, the phantom ache in my knuckles from the can’s vibration, the ghost of a sting on my cheek that flared whenever the memory of easy betrayals surfaced. And the creeping dread that nothing I made—no art, no mark, no connection—would ever last, because it all just fell apart too damn fast.

She was waving a hand, a flurry of pink bracelets jingling like a cruel mockery of joy. “Raze?” she tried again, her voice finally cutting through the static. I shoved the thoughts down, the familiar instinct to armor up kicking in. Don’t get pulled into her orbit. She smelled like bubblegum and sunshine, like the universe had spun her out of pure, unadulterated annoyance. Yet, strangely, a small, ignorable part of me found it… grounding.

More fragments of her speech drifted my way: “…feelings… yours… can’t exactly hide…” Feelings. God, I hated feelings. Usually, she’d be pointing out another poorly executed tag, or asking if I needed a refill of something even more potent. This was… different. Was she talking about the mural? I hoped so. Anything but this weird, charged quiet.

I pulled a dented lighter from my pocket, flicking it open. The small flame danced, warm and volatile. Real. My mind latched onto it, a tiny beacon in the encroaching gloom. She kept talking, her voice a little higher now, a little more… something. Was she confessing? Asking me to clean up some mess I hadn't even made yet? I didn’t bother to decipher it. Words were for people who believed in promises.

The sun finally surrendered, leaving smudges of bruised purple and deep indigo in the sky. Shadows stretched and distorted, turning familiar fire escapes into skeletal figures. My heart hammered against my ribs – a combination of the adrenaline from sprinting up three flights of stairs for the perfect perch, and the unnerving proximity of Bubble. The air between us felt thick, charged with an unseen current.

I stared down at the flame, mesmerized by its capricious dance. Keep your hands busy. Don’t think about it.

Then, from behind me, a laugh – a little shaky, a little too bright. And a single word, sharp and clear, that lodged itself somewhere deep in my chest: “love.”

I blinked, the flame in my hand suddenly insignificant. My gaze snapped to hers, a frown etching itself onto my face. “Come again?” I asked, the words gruff, a little too loud.

Before I could process the question, her hand connected with my head, a surprisingly sharp rap. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, just… unexpected. My eyes widened, my hand instinctively going to where she’d struck me. “Hey! What the hell was that for?!”