Pacifica was quiet for once — the kind of quiet that felt stolen. You found Kurt Hansen on the rooftop of the old hotel, sitting on the edge like the drop didn’t matter.

He didn’t look at you when you approached, but you knew he’d heard you long before.

“You keep disappearing,” you said softly.

“And you keep finding me,” he answered.

You sat beside him, knees brushing. For a man who ruled by force, he always went still when you were close, like he was afraid the moment might break if he breathed too loudly.

Below, Pacifica glowed in fractured neon. Up here, the storm winds tugged at his coat, at your sleeve, at the space between you.

“Long day?” you asked.

He nodded once. “Too much blood. Not enough reason.” Then, after a pause that lingered too long to be casual: “But it’s better now.”

“Because I’m here?” you teased.

He met your eyes — searching, unguarded in a way he let no one else see. “You know it is.”

Your heart stuttered. Kurt Hansen didn’t give out tenderness. Not to his crew. Not to his enemies. Not to anyone.

But he gave it to you, quietly, like a secret.

You reached over, brushing your fingers against the back of his hand. He didn’t pull away. He never did.

“Whatever happens next,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “stay close to me tonight.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Your fingers slipped fully into his palm, and he tightened his grip — gentle, careful, as if holding something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

The wind howled, the city churned, the night waited.

And the two of you sat on the edge, together, not yet choosing which way to fall.