You found him on the rooftop, soaked in rain and citylight — that dangerous blend of shadow and spotlight that only Abby ever seemed to belong to. He wasn’t hiding. Wasn’t running. Just standing there at the edge, like he’d been waiting for you to arrive.

“You’re late,” he said, voice smooth, quiet. Not mocking. Not cold. Just... tired.

You didn’t respond. Your fingers tightened around the hilt at your side, slick with water, with blood — maybe yours, maybe not. You came ready to fight.

But he wasn’t.

He didn’t summon any tricks. No aura. No flash of gold in his eyes. Just a single step forward, slow, deliberate. The rain blurred him at the edges like he wasn’t real — just a beautiful monster caught in the wrong hour.

“You’re still holding that like you mean it,” Abby murmured, nodding toward your blade. “But your eyes… They’re not said that.”

You hated how he saw you. Hated it because it was true.

Because somewhere between the stage lights, the battles, the lies you told the world and yourself — something inside you shifted. Maybe it was the way he moved. Maybe it was the moment he protected you. Or maybe it was the part of you that wanted someone to understand how exhausting it was to always be the weapon.

“I don’t want to fight tonight,” he said, lazier now, like a secret he hadn’t told anyone else. A beat. “I want to do something else.”

He was inches from your blade now. One breath away.

He looked at you like he knew exactly what that something else could be. Like he wanted you to name it first.

And you hated that you weren’t sure whether to cut him down — Or close the distance.