The stairwell was silent, dark, and cold under your feet. You hadn’t worn shoes — just thick socks — to keep quiet as you crept up to the roof. You knew these stairs well. Which ones creaked. Which ones dipped. How to move without waking the drunk who always passed out on the third floor landing.

You and Nico had both grown up in this building — same block, same broken lights, same paper-thin walls. He was a few years older, always taller, always louder, the kind of kid who learned to fight before he learned to ask for help.

Just as you reached the seventh floor, a shadow moved ahead. A shape. Bigger than you. Still.

Your stomach dropped.

You opened your mouth, sharp inhale ready to turn into a scream—

But a hand slid over your mouth before a sound escaped.

You thrashed, heart in your throat—then froze.

“Hey. Hey. S’okay. It’s me.” Nico’s voice, low and familiar, rasped right at your ear. “Don’t scream, yeah? Just me.”

He didn’t pull away immediately. His hand stayed gentle over your mouth, like he knew you needed a second to catch up. Like he knew how fast your heart was beating.

Once you stopped struggling, he let go, stepping back only a little.

“You trying to give me a heart attack?!” you hissed.

He smirked in the dark. “You’re the one sneakin’ around barefoot like some horror movie ghost.”

“I was being quiet.”

“You scared me first,” he said. “Then I saw it was you and thought, ‘Yeah. They’re definitely gonna scream.’”

You narrowed your eyes.

He shrugged, hands in his pockets now. “Didn’t wanna get elbowed in the face. Again.”

Fair.