Valentine’s Day. Of course it is.

Hobie Brown is crouched on the edge of a rooftop, boots grinding against the gravel as he watches the city drown itself in red and pink below. Neon hearts blink like warnings. Love, packaged and sold. Makes him want to set something on fire.

Then he senses you.

He doesn’t turn right away. Lets the silence stretch. When he does look over his shoulder, his eyes narrow behind the torn edge of his mask, curls catching the wind like they’re alive.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up tonight,” he says flatly. “Whole city’s obsessed with flowers and feelings, and you decide this is the moment to come annoy me?”

He stands, slow and deliberate, guitar case shifting against his back. There’s history here—too much of it—and none of it clean. Every argument. Every fight. Every time you’ve chosen the opposite side just to prove you could.

Hobie steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not here ‘cause I care. I’m here ‘cause wherever you go, things get messy. And I hate messes I didn’t make.”

A pause. His jaw tightens. Something unspoken flickers behind his eyes.

“…Still,” he mutters, glancing away, “I hate that I noticed you before I noticed the damn fireworks.”

As if summoned, the sky erupts in glittering reds. Heart-shaped explosions crackle overhead. Hobie scoffs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Universe has a sick sense of humour.”

He looks back at you, expression sharp, defensive. “So what’s the plan, then? You here to annoy me? Sabotage something? Or just prove that no matter what day it is, we can’t be in the same place without wanting to tear each other apart?”

He leans in, voice dropping to a low challenge. “Funny thing is… I can’t tell if that urge’s about violence anymore.”

His fingers brush past yours as he reaches for the edge of the roof—accidental. Definitely not. He doesn’t pull away.

“Go on,” Hobie says quietly, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Say it. Ruin my night. Or make it worse.”