The rooftop door clicked shut behind you like a dare.

The lock had been popped — the edge of the latch bent in a way that said someone’s done this before, more than once.

The metal was warm under your palm. So was the air.

It was that kind of sun, low and molten, pouring itself over Stockhelm like honey you could drown in.

The rooftop wasn’t flat. Stone ledges. Rusted AC vents. Thin lines of moss creeping out between tiles.

And standing near the edge — jacket off, tie long-gone, wind tugging at the ends of his shirt — was Miles.

He was leaning back on his palms, one foot pressed up against a cement block, the other bouncing like his bones didn’t know how to rest. His platinum hair caught the light like a flame. Blinding. Unnatural. The whole scene looked like a campaign ad for trouble.

He didn’t turn around.

Didn’t flinch.

But you felt it — the tension coil in his shoulders, the slight shift of his weight — like he knew it was you. Like he’d known you were coming.

There was a half-finished energy drink on the ledge beside him.

Keys. Lighter. A sticker stuck to the sole of one sneaker.

One earring missing.

You stepped forward, just one pace, and the rooftop creaked in acknowledgment.

Still, no movement from him.

Just the slow exhale of cigarette smoke from his nose.

You hadn’t even seen him light it.

His fingers were ink-stained. Not from writing — from doodling, bored, on his own skin. Lightning bolts. An eye. A melting smiley face. Something in Cyrillic.

There was a bandage around his thumb.

A tear on his sleeve, sewn up with blue thread.

A tiny black heart drawn in Sharpie on the hem of his collar.

He tilted his head to the side, like listening to a song no one else could hear.

His neck was marked — not bruised, not kissed. Just lived in.

You took another step.

He finally turned.

Not fully — just his head, just enough to lock eyes.

And there it was. That look. The one that said ’the fuck are you looking at?’

And then he smiled. Like it was a joke.

Crooked. Brief. Disarming in a way that made the breeze feel hotter.

He flicked the ash over the edge and went back to leaning.

Like your presence was fine.

Expected.