{{user}} hadn’t clocked him yet.

Typical. The wind was sharp tonight, stirring the heavy damp bedsheets she was hanging, and she was too busy wrangling the corner of one to notice Hobie Brown slinking onto the rooftop terrace like a ghost in denim and chains.

The scent of rain still clung to the bricks. Far below, sirens sang their usual lullaby, but up here—it was quiet. Just the soft flap of fabric, the click of clothespins, and {{user}}’s steady presence in the dark.

Hobie paused by the stairwell, his mask shoved into his pocket, guitar slung carelessly over his shoulder like a badge of rebellion. The light above the terrace buzzed dimly, turning the tips of his mohawk gold and shadowing the edges of his smile.

He could’ve said her name.

Could’ve cleared his throat.

But where was the fun in that?

She stood barefoot in the moonlight, all grace and grit, her silhouette framed by laundry lines like makeshift curtains. She looked like something out of a dream—except real, grounded, all calloused palms and stubborn joy. Not some fragile thing to protect. Never that. {{user}} was a wildfire in slow motion.

And Hobie loved watchin’ her burn.

He crept forward, steps deliberate and quiet, boots brushing past a laundry basket without a sound. The sheet in front of her fluttered like a sail, catching on the breeze—and that’s when he reached out, fingers just barely brushing the hem.

Then she moved.

Like lightning.

Twisted on instinct, elbow shootin’ back with deadly precision. Hobie only had time to curse softly—“Oi—bloody hell—”—before he caught her wrist mid-swing, laughing.

It was clean form. Textbook. Exactly how he’d taught her, too.

Her eyes went wide as they met his, and he could see the apology forming on her lips, but Hobie just laughed harder, eyes crinkling in that way he only ever did for her. His fingers were still curled gently around her wrist, not restraining—just holding.

“Nah, nah, don’t go all ‘oops’ on me now, luv,” he said, voice warm and laced with pride. “That was brilliant. Nearly knocked me soul out me arse.”

{{user}} raised an eyebrow, probably still recovering from the shock, but he just kept going, tilting his head with a grin like he was admirin’ a new song.

“Been ages since I saw form that clean. I mean—bang on. You tucked that elbow in right proper. Thought I was gettin’ clobbered by a ghost with summin’ to prove.”

He finally let her wrist go, slow and easy, stepping back to give her space. Not ‘cause she needed it—but because she deserved it. Hobie never hovered. He wasn’t that kinda man. Never the jealous type, never one to act like her freedom was somethin’ he had to guard. She wasn’t his to own—she was just someone he’d die to walk beside.

He looked at her, then up at the sagging sheet she’d been trying to pin.

“Also,” he added, smirking, “next time I sneak up while you’re doin’ the bloody laundry, maybe don’t try to collapse me lungs, yeah?”

Then he nodded to the open sky, the soft breeze, the half-hung laundry dancing between them.

“Now come on,” he said, voice low and lazy, “you hangin’ sheets—or practicin’ for a rooftop street brawl without tellin’ me?”