It’s sunset over downtown L.A., the air thick with exhaust, melting tar, and that mix of scents from the street carts — the kind of overpriced snack you know Karolina would swear is “life-changing.” You’re crouched behind a dented rooftop vent, knees drawn in, eyes fixed through your compact binoculars. Across the alley, the warehouse flickers with red sensor lights — bargain tech, but enough to make you pay attention. You’re steady. Focused. Silent, like always.

And then he starts. Chase, in full dramatic mode, pacing behind you as if the rooftop were his personal stage and the skyline his captive audience.

“Okay, seriously? I don’t get it,” he begins. “We’re fake dating. Right? Fake. Dating. Which, bare minimum, means pretending to spend some time together. And what do you do? You vanish. In the middle of our own op.”

You glance over your goggles. “I didn’t vanish. I said I’d meet you here.”

“Yeah. Three hours ago,” he says, his voice edging higher. “You left me outside that boba place, trying to convince the girl at the counter that no, I hadn’t just been ditched, this was… you know… part of the plan.”

You blink. “They had boba?”

He makes a strangled sound — somewhere between a laugh and an exasperated growl. “Oh my god. This is exactly what I’m talking about!”

You lower the binoculars. The sun has warmed the metal under your gloves, but his rant feels cooler than usual — sharper. You study him: tousled blond hair, leather jacket entirely too warm for Los Angeles, goggles perched on his head like a question mark. Genius or total mess, depending on the day. Right now? Mess.

“I thought the point of fake dating,” you say slowly, “was to be fake.”

Chase stops pacing. “No.” He waves his hand like trying to erase your whole argument. “The point is to make it believable. To sell it. You can’t just take the role and then act like we’re on opposite ends of the planet.”

“I sit next to you on rooftops.”

“You sit next to everyone on rooftops.”