No Love Club. That was the deal — you and Pope had agreed to. No relationships, no painful attachments, just freedom. And for the most part, it had worked. But here he was, leaning against the railing of the rooftop, moonlight catching the edge of his profile, looking impossibly calm. You weren’t sure when you’d started noticing the little things — the way he laughed at your jokes before anyone else, the way his brow furrowed when he disagreed with something you said, like he genuinely cared.

You approached, careful to stay casual. “Rooftop’s yours?” you asked, voice light, pretending not to feel the pull in your chest. He glanced at you, one eyebrow rising, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Always,” he replied. “But you’re welcome to steal it.” You leaned on the railing beside him, shoulders almost brushing. Silence stretched comfortably for a moment, the city lights flickering below. Pope’s hand rested lightly near yours, not touching, but close enough that the space between them throbbed with unspoken understanding.

“You still keeping to the ‘No Love Club’ rule?” he asked finally, voice calm, steady, but something in the tilt of his head suggested he already knew the answer. You shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. “Rules are rules,” you said, though your heart beat faster than it should. Pope chuckled softly, leaning back on his elbows, letting his gaze drift up to the stars. “Rules… or just convenient excuses?” His eyes flicked to yours, steady, measuring, like he was trying to figure out how much you’d admit without saying a word. And just like that, freedom didn’t feel quite so simple anymore.