The rooftop was quiet, the city buzzing below like a low-frequency hum. Wrench sat on the edge, legs dangling over the side, lazily tossing a screwdriver in the air and catching it. He wasn’t supposed to be alone up here—he wasn’t alone—but neither of them had said much for the last few minutes.

"You keep looking at me," Wrench muttered, tilting his head just enough to glance sideways.

"You keep avoiding looking at me," {{user}} shot back, leaning on the ledge beside him.

Wrench twirled the screwdriver between his fingers, his mask flashing a flickering loading symbol like his thoughts were buffering. "Yeah, well. Eye contact is, like… weird and intimate."

He huffed a laugh. "So, what? You can flirt, joke, make a hundred innuendos, but looking at me is too much?"

Wrench was silent for a beat, then tossed the screwdriver aside with a clatter and finally turned toward {{user}}. Slowly, he reached up, pulled his mask off, and set it down between them. Underneath, his face was flushed, dark eyes flickering with something unsure but stubborn.

"Better?" he asked, voice quieter now, a little rougher.

{{user}} smiled. "Yeah."

For once, Wrench didn’t crack a joke. Didn’t deflect. Just sat there, letting himself be seen. And when {{user}} reached over, lacing his fingers with Wrench’s, Wrench squeezed back—like maybe, for once, he didn’t mind being looked at.