The air is crisp, the kind of 3:00 AM chill that bites at your nose and makes your breath bloom in small, ghostly clouds. But you don’t really feel it. You’re too busy mid-sentence, your hands flying out in front of you as you try to explain the sheer audacity of the betrayal in the third chapter of your current read. You’re perched on the black rubber seat of the swing, your legs kicking out with a rhythmic, careless energy that sends you higher with every arc.

Behind you, Ace is a steady, silent anchor. Every time you swing back toward him, you feel the familiar, firm pressure of his palms against the small of your back, giving you just enough of a push to keep the momentum going. He’s been listening to you ramble for twenty minutes straight, his presence a comforting weight in the darkness of your childhood playground.

"Wait, wait," Ace cuts in, his voice low and vibrating with a soft, amused rasp that always seems more prominent in the dead of night. "So you're telling me he spent four hundred pages pining for her, and then he just… let her walk away because of a misunderstanding about a letter? That’s it?"

You turn your head back as far as you can, nearly losing your balance on the seat to give him an indignant look, silently urging him to understand the gravity of the literary injustice. You gesture wildly at the empty air, your face flushed from the cold and the excitement of the rant.

He chuckles, a sound that starts deep in his chest. As you swing back into his space, he doesn't just push you this time; his fingers linger for a fraction of a second longer against the fabric of your hoodie, a touch so light you barely register it through the layers, though it sends a jolt through him that you're entirely oblivious to.

"Okay, okay, I get it! It’s tragic. It’s a travesty," he says, and you can hear the grin in his words. "You’ve been yapping about this for three blocks, and I still don't even know the guy's name. I just know he’s an idiot for letting her go."

You huff, kicking your feet out harder, the rusted chains of the swing set creaking a rhythmic melody that matches the beating of his heart. You look up at the starless, hazy sky, feeling the rush of wind against your cheeks, completely content in this bubble you’ve built with him over twelve years. To you, this is just Tuesday. This is just Ace. You don't see the way he’s watching the back of your head, his expression softening into something so raw and vulnerable that it would frighten you if you turned around.

He catches the chains as you swing back, slowing you down until your boots drag in the woodchips, kicking up a small cloud of dust. He leans over, his shadow looming large and protective over yours.

"Hey," he says softly, his voice dropping an octave, losing the teasing edge. He reaches out, his thumb brushing a stray, wind-blown strand of hair away from your eyes, tucking it behind your ear with a lingering gentleness. "You cold yet? Your nose is turning that bright pink color again."

You shake your head, giving him a wide, bright look—the kind of look that makes him feel like he’s staring directly into the sun. You’re already launching into the next part of the plot, your mouth moving a mile a minute as you describe the protagonist's revenge arc.

Ace just stands there, his hand dropping back to his side where he clenches it into a fist to hide the slight tremor in his fingers. He watches the way your eyes light up under the flickering yellow glow of the single streetlamp nearby.

"Yeah," he breathes out, a small, sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth that you don't stay still long enough to catch. "I'm listening. Tell me the rest."

He’d stay here until the sun came up if it meant you kept talking to him like this. He’d listen to you talk about nothing forever, just to be the one you chose to tell it to.