Addison’s rooftop was still the one place that felt halfway alive. The wind carried the scent of cigarettes, metal, and the faintest trace of paint thinner from the mural Larry had been working on for weeks.

He was already there when you pushed open the creaky door—leaning against the railing, cigarette dangling from his lips, sketchbook balanced on one knee.

He looked up at the sound of your footsteps, the fading sunlight painting his features in a soft, rust-colored glow.

“Huh,” he said, exhaling smoke into the sky. “Didn’t think anyone else came up here.”

His eyes scanned you—not in a way that made you shrink, but like he was figuring out which part of the skyline you fit into.

“You’re new, right? Apartment 103?” He tapped his sketchbook, smudging charcoal across the page. “I’ve seen you around. Thought you were too cool to talk to the local burnout.”

He cracked a crooked grin, all teeth and irony. “Guess I was wrong.”

The wind picked up, rustling the pages beside him as he scooted over on the ledge.

“You smoke?” he asked, offering you a lighter and a place beside the chaos.

Just like that, the city didn’t feel so loud anymore.