The rooftopbreathed with the city: distant sirens, tires hissing on wet asphalt, the low hum of neon. I moved quietly, listening for trouble, when a heartbeat broke the pattern. Close. Quick.

Not fear of the city. Fear of me.

I turned toward it, the scent of rain and warm fabric drifting in the air, and found you sitting in the shadows of the rooftop, holding perfectly still.

“You pick strange places to sit.” I said, my voice low, almost a warning.