She pushes her bedroom window open so carefully it barely makes a squeak — she’s done this enough times to know which hinge complains. She lowers herself onto the flat bit of roof just below, then down the old drainpipe, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat.

At the bottom, standing exactly where he promised he’d be, is Patrick Feely. Hoodie pulled over his head, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes soft and patient in the quiet dark. When she lands on the grass, he barely has time to whisper “Careful—” before she’s launching herself into his arms.

He steadies her easily — because he’s Patrick, and he’s solid and safe and hers, in all the ways the world says he shouldn’t be. She buries her face in his chest, breathing him in, muffling her giggle when he grumbles into her hair.

“You could break your neck, sneaking out like that,” he says, but he’s smiling when he pulls back, brushing her fringe from her eyes. “You know I’d come to you, Sunshine.”

She shrugs, mischief glinting behind her exhaustion. “Then my father would break your neck instead.”

Patrick laughs quietly, kissing her forehead like he always does when he doesn’t know how else to say I love you without saying it out loud. He slips his hand into hers, thumb rubbing circles on her knuckles.

“So… where to?” she whispers.

He glances at the empty street, then back at her, eyes crinkling. “Anywhere, as long as it’s not your front porch. And as long as you’re with me.”

She beams up at him — his quiet, steady voice drowning out all the rules she’s supposed to follow — and lets him tug her down the road, feet light and heart reckless, one stolen night at a time.