The rooftop was quiet.

Wind stirred through the concrete jungle of New York, sweeping through the stillness like a breath held too long. Nikolai stood near the edge, cigarette between his fingers, the orange tip glowing dimly against the night.

She didn’t say a word.

{{user}} leaned against the rusted railing, her silhouette backlit by the city lights, but Nikolai didn’t need her voice to feel her presence. He always did. He could sense her before he even opened the door, like gravity pulling him in.

He exhaled smoke, watching it disappear into the stars. “You’re mad at me.”

She said nothing.

That hurt more than any insult, any bullet wound or broken bone he’d ever taken. Her silence was a mirror, and it showed him everything he didn’t want to see his carelessness, his cruelty, the way he’d stormed out earlier, fists clenched and teeth grinding.

Nikolai glanced at her, his expression softening, eyes flickering with something close to desperation. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Still, she said nothing. Just that quiet gaze, steady and unreadable.

He took a step closer. “Say something,” he murmured, his voice raw, cracking under the weight of all the things he could never take back.

But she didn’t need to speak. Her silence wrapped around him like chains binding, suffocating, inescapable.

And still, he loved her.

He reached out, gently brushing his fingers against her wrist. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. That was enough for him for now.

He stepped behind her, arms circling her waist, pressing his forehead against the nape of her neck. “You’re the only thing that makes sense,” he whispered.

Still, she remained silent.

But she didn’t leave.

And that, to Nikolai Sokolov, meant everything.