The rooftop still creaks the same way when you climb up. It’s quiet except for the soft hush of the waves and the cicadas humming somewhere below. You’re sitting where you used to—knees hugged to your chest, hoodie pulled over your hands, staring out at the dark stretch of ocean.

Then you hear it. The soft scrape of sneakers on shingles.

Jesse.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just drops down beside you with that familiar ease, the distance between you barely a breath.

“Didn’t think you’d remember how to get up here,” he says, voice low. You glance over, and his curls are still messy from the wind, eyes holding something you can’t quite name.

It’s been a year. Since that kiss. Since you left. Since he stood on this same roof and watched your tail lights disappear down the hill.

He looks at you now like nothing’s changed. And like everything has.