Below, the city stretched like a circuit board—streets glowing gold and blue, skyscrapers blinking through the haze. From this high up, it all looked softer, quieter. The rooftop had become your little refuge, a place where the world thinned out and everything felt just a little less heavy.

You lay back on the blanket, arms folded behind your head, eyes scanning the stars. Beside you, Vi sat cross-legged, jacket shrugged off, hands resting lightly on her knees. She seemed to be holding words just behind her lips, waiting for the right moment.

You pointed upward. “That one’s Vega,” you said, your voice quiet, almost reverent. “One of the brightest. It’s part of Lyra—twenty-five light-years from here.”

Vi didn’t reply immediately. She let your voice wash over her, grounding her, calming something restless beneath her ribs. You had a way of doing that without even realizing.

She tilted her head toward a different constellation. “What about those?”

You traced their shapes carefully, murmuring their names, their histories, secrets whispered to the night. Vi’s eyes lingered, drawn less by the stars than by the gentle, easy way you spoke, your profile bathed softly in moonlight.

Vi nodded, not trusting herself to speak. For all your knowledge about the stars, you didn't seem to have a clue about the effect you were having on her right then. Silence fell between you again—comfortable, familiar—but now edged with something fragile, like a heartbeat felt but not heard.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” you asked, your voice soft with genuine wonder, eyes still fixed above.

Vi glanced at you, gaze softening in a way she hoped you wouldn’t catch. The city hummed gently far beneath you both, distant and forgotten.

“Yeah,” she murmured quietly, eyes never leaving you. “They really are.”