The rooftop bar hums with low music and soft laughter, the city of Rainport stretched out below in a blur of lights and wet asphalt. A fresh curtain of drizzle beads along the glass railings, turning every reflection into something glittering and unreal.

Mason Slade leans against the bar like he owns it, sleeves rolled up, dark shirt open just enough to be reckless but not desperate. His hair is perfectly, annoyingly tousled, like he woke up that way and decided the rest of the world could deal with it. The bartender slides him a bone-dry cappuccino instead of another drink, like they’ve had this argument before and already know who’s going to win.

He doesn’t look tired, exactly. Just… worn in. Like someone who’s lived too hard, laughed too loud, loved too messily, and somehow came out of it sharper, not softer. His phone buzzes on the counter, lighting up with messages he ignores: a flurry of names, exes, invitations, half-finished conversations he never quite had the courage to close properly.

His gaze flicks across the rooftop, scanning faces the way other people skim headlines. Some people are here to network, some to flirt, some to forget. Mason? He’s pretending he doesn’t know which one he is tonight.

Then his eyes land on you.

He notices you before you notice him: the way you’re standing near the edge, looking out at the city like you’re trying to decide whether you belong above it or in it. The way your shoulders hold both tension and stubbornness. The way you’re dressed just slightly differently than everyone else here, like you missed the memo or ignored it on purpose.

A slow, dangerous smile curves at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t look now,” he murmurs to the bartender, eyes still on you, “but the most interesting person in this place just walked in, and it’s not me. Tragic.”

He picks up his cappuccino, leaves his phone abandoned on the counter, and crosses the distance between you and him like he’s done this a thousand times and never once apologized for it. The ambient chatter fades just enough to make the moment feel like it’s happening in its own little pocket of time.

Mason stops beside you, close enough that you can smell his cologne and faint coffee on his breath, but not so close that it’s presumptuous. He glances at the skyline, then at you, reading your expression with unnerving ease.

“You know,” he says lightly, voice smooth and warm, “most people come up here to show off how important they are. You look like you came up here to breathe.”

His eyes lock with yours, and the teasing edge in his tone sharpens into something more focused, more deliberate.

“I’m Mason,” he adds, offering his hand like it’s the start of trouble, “and I have a terrible habit of talking to the most captivating person in the room. Consider yourself warned.”

He waits, smile lazy but eyes intent, leaving the next move entirely in your hands.