Night pressed softly against Maverick’s room, the kind that muted sound and made thoughts louder. His desk lamp was on, angled low, light spilling across sheet music and a half-cleaned glass he’d forgotten to put away. He was mid–string change on his guitar when the familiar scrape hit the window. Not a knock. A warning.

He didn’t look up right away. He just sighed, already standing, already pulling the latch before the sound could repeat. Cool air rushed in, followed by the top of a ladder and then her—careful hands, socked feet, hair catching faintly on the frame as she climbed through like this was the most natural entrance in the world.

“You’re late,” he murmured, stepping back to give her space.

“You didn’t say when,” she replied, already inside, already grinning like she owned the place.

The ladder stayed hooked between their houses, an unspoken agreement made years ago and never questioned. Too close for parents to notice. Too normal to feel dangerous.

She dusted off her hands and glanced around his room, eyes drifting over the neatness that never fooled her. Everything was tidy, yes—but too tidy. Overcompensating tidy.

“You reorganized again,” she said. He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.” That earned him a look. The kind that said I know, without forcing him to admit it.

She hopped onto his bed, knees pulled up, gaze wandering until it landed on the guitar. “Play something.”

“Now?”

She tilted her head. “You’re already holding it.”

Fair point. He sat on the edge of the bed, fingers moving without thinking. The tune was unfinished, soft around the edges, but she listened like it was complete—like every pause meant something. He didn’t look at her while he played. He never did. Somehow, she still saw him.

When he stopped, the silence didn’t rush in. It settled. “That part,” she said quietly, pointing to nothing in particular. “It sounds like you.”

He huffed. “That doesn’t mean anything.” “It does,” she said, firm but gentle. “You just don’t like admitting it.”

She slid off the bed and leaned against the wall beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. Almost. Maverick stared at the floor, jaw tight, thoughts already spiraling—too quiet, too close, too much.

Then she nudged him with her elbow. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Thinking yourself into knots.” She smiled, softer now. “Relax. It’s just me.” That was the problem. It always had been.

Outside, the ladder waited, steady and patient. Inside, Maverick let himself breathe—just a little—because in moments like this, when she chose the window instead of the door, the world felt less like something he had to survive and more like something he could quietly keep.

"I guess, I'll try." He voiced, the sentence came out a bit weaker than earlier ones.