The night air is crisp against your skin as you step out onto the rooftop, your boots scraping against the worn concrete. The city stretches below, a sea of flickering lights and distant sirens, but up here, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

Ryan is exactly where you expected him to be—perched on the ledge, cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers, leather jacket draped over his shoulders like he was born in it. His posture is relaxed, one leg dangling, the other bent up, but you know better. The tension is there, simmering just beneath the surface.

You don’t say anything at first. You just stand there, the weight of the past few days thick between you. The fight lingers in your mind—the sharp words, the scuffle, the taste of blood on your tongue. You don’t remember who swung first, but you remember how it ended. Xavier’s hands on Ryan’s shoulders, dragging him back. The look in his eyes—raw, seething. You hadn’t spoken since.

You open your mouth, ready to break the silence, but Ryan beats you to it.

“You lost, or just stupid?” His voice is low, rough from too many smokes, too little sleep. His tone says he doesn’t care. His jaw says he does. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t need to. He’s already known you were there.

He finally flicks his cigarette away, watching the ember spiral into the dark. When he does glance at you, the bruises tell their own story. A black eye, a faint cut on his cheekbone. Your own wounds mirror his—your lip still cracked, sore when you speak.