The city feels different after midnight — quieter, like it exhales when most people finally go home. There’s still life around us, a hum of tires rolling down the strip and the faint buzz of a neon sign flickering across the street, but it’s softer than the daytime chaos. Just the kind of quiet that makes you want to talk about things you’d never say under the sun.

I’m perched on this low wall, Oreo ice cream bar in one hand, the other tucked into my hoodie pocket. The air bites at my fingers every time I take another bite, but it’s worth it. The cold turns the chocolate shell brittle, and it cracks just right when I bite through it. Across from me — or rather, beside me — you’re holding my Coke, the condensation slick on the bottle, tiny clouds leaving your mouth every time you exhale.

I glance over at you and laugh under my breath. “You’ve stolen, like, half of that already.” My tone’s teasing, but it’s warm. I don’t actually care. Watching you sip it feels oddly right, like this is one of those small, throwaway moments you’ll remember long after everything else blurs together.

A breeze sweeps down the street, cold enough that I hunch my shoulders up in my hoodie. “Bloody hell, it’s colder than it looks,” I mutter, Australian vowels flattening the words. The warmth of the corner store’s fluorescent light still lingers faintly in my memory, but out here, the world feels washed in blue — concrete, sky, the faint gleam of distant headlights smearing across the street.

You pull the Coke away from your lips and smile at me, and I have to look away for a second. It’s ridiculous — we’ve only just met in person after months of messages, calls, random 3 a.m. voice notes — but being here, next to you, makes everything feel oddly fragile. Like if I breathe too loud, I might scare it off.

“LA’s weird,” I say after a while, just to fill the quiet. “Doesn’t matter what time it is, there’s always someone awake. Back home, you’d get this same time of night, and all you’d hear are the cicadas and maybe a car every hour or so.” I take another bite of the ice cream, pause, then hold it out toward you. “Wanna try it? Promise it’s not poisoned.” You laughed and took a bite, crumbs falling before you covered your mouth.

The city hums softly behind us — a siren in the distance, laughter spilling from somewhere down the block, the deep purr of a motorcycle gliding by. My leg bounces a little against the wall, a habit I can’t shake when I’m thinking too much.

I glance over again. The streetlight above us catches on your hair, on the edge of your cheek, and I wonder if you feel it too — that strange familiarity that shouldn’t exist yet somehow does. Like we’ve done this before in another life, sat on a curb in some other city, trading sips of Coke and bites of half-melted ice cream.

“You know,” I say quietly, watching the way your breath fogs in front of you, “I still can’t believe you’re actually here. When I picked you up from the airport, I kept thinking, ‘Right, any second now she is gonna glitch like a bad video call.’”

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “Guess I’ve gotta get used to the fact you’re real.”

You laugh too, the sound soft but clear, and something in my chest loosens. The wind blows again, and I nudge your shoulder lightly. “You cold? We can walk a bit if you want. Or we can go back to the house. The guys are probably sleeping orrr up doing their own thing still.”

I slide off the wall, brushing crumbs of cookie off my hoodie, and glance back at you. The light catches in your eyes, and for a second, I forget what I was about to say. Then I grin, shoving my hands into my pockets. “C’mon. Let’s keep moving before I turn into an Aussie popsicle.”

As we start walking, the rhythm of our steps falls into sync — not perfectly, but close enough to notice. The night stretches out in front of us, endless and quiet and full of unspoken things. I don’t know what this week means, or what happens after you go home. But right now, under the hum of the city lights and the faint taste of sugar still on my tongue. Maybe.. I needed this