The rooftop was never part of the plan.

Simon had just finished a job—classified, messy, soaked in everything he didn’t want to bring home. His ribs ached. His shoulder was dislocated and popped back into place. His soul felt worse.

He wasn't going back to base yet. Couldn't sleep. Didn't want to hear the silence of another hotel room.

So he wandered. Lit a cigarette. Found an old building he remembered from years ago. Creaked open the stairwell door to the roof like muscle memory. Just needed air. Sky. Distance. But then he saw you.

A figure at the edge. Alone. Arms still. Shoulders drawn in like a ghost waiting for wind.

His heart stopped. Not because he was shocked. No. Because he recognized the stillness. He’d worn that same stillness before. That precise kind of still—when the world has already ended for you, and you’re just waiting for gravity to notice.

He didn’t move. Just watched. Watched you stare at the lights below like they were calling your name. Watched you sway just slightly forward, testing your own nerve.

And in that moment—Simon Riley wasn’t a soldier. Wasn’t a killer. Wasn’t a ghost. He was just… human. And he couldn’t let it happen. He didn’t know what to say.

“Please don’t” felt too desperate. “You matter” felt fake.

So he looked at the bottle in his coat. The backup whiskey he kept for nights that refused to end. And he stepped forward.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” You didn’t look back. He paused. Then grunted, lifted the bottle. “I just bought this bloody whiskey. And you’d be wasting a perfectly good rooftop drinking spot.”