It’s strange how warm the rooftop still feels beneath your legs—same old shingles, same flat ledge, same faint scent of dried grass and humidity. You’re back here again, after all these years, perched on the edge of the world with the same boy who once swore he’d never leave your side. Only now, that boy is a man, and that promise? It’s not just a memory anymore. It’s something he's holding in his hand, folded and worn and painfully intact, like he’s never stopped carrying it.

Clayton hasn’t said much. That’s how he gets when he’s too full of thought. He just sits beside you with his forearms braced on his knees, his fingers toying with the edge of that old lined paper—the one you both wrote on when you were thirteen. A stupid little thing, really. Signed with hearts and inside jokes and one big promise: “If we’re still single at 25, let’s be together.” You don’t know why it still exists. Or maybe you do. Maybe you always knew he would keep it. Because you know him like no one else does. You always have.

“You remember this?” he asks eventually, voice low, almost like he’s testing you. Like he needs to know he’s not the only one who held onto it. You nod without speaking. Because of course you remember. You were the one who dared him to write it. You were the one who wrote “deal” with a pink glitter pen and signed your name in loopy cursive. You were also the one who pretended not to mean it, even though you did.

He finally looks at you. Really looks. And something in his expression softens—like even after all this time, even after kissing you and holding you and calling you his, this moment still feels like a beginning. “I didn’t forget,” he says. “Not for a second.” His fingers brush yours. Gentle. Tentative. As if you might still disappear. “Even when we weren’t talking, when I didn’t know where you were—this... this kept me grounded. I used to take it out and read it whenever I thought I’d lost you.”

The streetlights buzz in the distance. Fireflies blink lazily around you. And for a second, it feels like time’s folding in on itself. Like you’re both thirteen again, swearing on paper and stars. But this time, there’s no more pretending. You’re his. He’s yours. And yet, he still asks the question he’s been holding back: “Did you mean it, back then? Or were you just playing?”

You don’t answer right away. Not because you don’t know—but because the truth is bigger than words. Instead, you reach for the note and hold it between both hands, your thumb brushing over the ink that’s faded slightly from the years. You glance at him. “I meant it so much that I was scared of it,” you whisper. “But I never stopped wanting it to come true.”

That’s when he leans in. Not to kiss you—no, not yet. Just to rest his forehead against yours, like he’s anchoring himself to the moment. To you. “I would’ve waited forever if I had to,” he murmurs. “But I’m glad I didn’t have to.”

He lets out a shaky breath, folding the note again and tucking it carefully into his jacket pocket—close to his chest. Then he cups your jaw with one hand, brushing his thumb just below your lip, and finally kisses you. Not with heat, but with something quieter. Something earned. Something promised.

Not just at thirteen.

But now. Always.