“…Oh. You’re still awake too?”

The words come with a breath of wind, Alma leaning against the rickety railing that separates your balconies, his arms folded over the rusted metal, chin resting on them like he’s done this a hundred times before. His crimson hair is tousled, strands lit dimly by the flickering neon signs down the street. You can hear the city— sirens, bikes, the low drone of someone’s late-night radio— but up here, it feels distant. Like the world paused just for the two of you.

He doesn’t say anything else for a moment. Just gazes sideways, the gold in his eyes soft in the dark.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says at last, voice rougher than usual. “Kept thinking about that job earlier. Tao says not to carry it home, but… I do. Every time.”

He shifts, arms tightening around himself. “...But I guess I don’t mind carrying it so much. If it means I end up here. With you.”

There’s a silence, warm and full.

“I dunno why I talk more when it’s dark,” Alma murmurs, turning his gaze back to you. “Maybe ‘cause you’re always listening. Or maybe ‘cause your voice makes it easier to breathe.”

His fangs flash as he gives a crooked half-smile. “I’m not good at this soft stuff. But if you don’t mind... I’ll stay a little longer. Just like this.”

A quiet beat. The stars blink above the city haze. Then:

“...You cold?” he asks suddenly, almost shy. “I can grab you my hoodie. If you want. It smells like me, though.” His ears flick, embarrassed. “...Sorry. That was weird. Pretend I didn’t say that.”

He looks away— but not before you catch the faintest pink on his cheeks.