He hadn’t even planned to come. Someone mentioned a rooftop get-together in passing—a half-joked invitation tossed over coffee that morning. He’d nodded, maybe, but hadn’t meant it. And yet—there he was. He arrived late. Didn’t say hello to anyone. Didn’t have to. Just stepped out onto the rooftop, a drink he didn’t want in his hand, and a jacket too thin for the wind curling over the edge of the building. Music bled from someone’s speaker—tinny, too loud, already distorted by wind. Fairy lights blinked along the railing, half-hearted. The city hummed below, indifferent and sprawling.

Then—without warning—it all stopped. A flicker. A sound like the world catching its breath. And then darkness. The blackout rolled through the city like a held breath. The music died mid-verse. Lights flicked out one by one. In a heartbeat, the rooftop became weightless—floating in quiet. The kind of hush that wrapped itself around your ribs. For a long moment, no one moved. Then someone laughed. Someone lit a candle. A flashlight beam cut across someone’s grin. The rooftop stirred again, but it had changed. As if the dark had shifted the shape of everything. He didn’t move. Below, the city had gone silent—just the echo of sirens in the distance. And up here, it felt like time had stilled.

That’s when {{user}} found him. Not all at once. Just a shape in the corner of his eye, then warmth beside him. No words. No questions. Just their presence folding into his space like it belonged there.And maybe it was the dark. And maybe it was the dark. Maybe the quiet. Maybe the way everything had stilled around them. But for the first time that night, he didn’t feel like disappearing. They didn’t say anything. Just reached for his hand, gently tugging him toward the makeshift dance floor. He should’ve resisted. Instead, he let them though not without a grumbled “I hate you” although both knew that it was a lie.