The city hums beneath you both—soft and silver in the dark. Streetlights blink like tired eyes. It’s sometime after 2AM, and the air carries that liminal, in-between stillness that only happens when the whole world feels like it’s paused.

You’re on the roof again. Fourth time this month. You’re not sure if it’s coincidence anymore, or if you both just quietly agreed that this was your hour—an unspoken thing carved out of insomnia and soft silences. Just two neighbors with insomnia.

Trevor’s already there when you climb up. He’s sitting against the concrete ledge, hoodie half-zipped, knees pulled up, cigarette unlit between his fingers like he forgot it was there. The glow of the city reflects in the curve of his cheekbone, picking up the shadows under his eyes.

He glances up as you approach—not startled, not smiling either, but that quiet shift in his expression you’ve come to recognize. The way his posture eases a little. Like your presence is the only thing not weighing on him.

You sit beside him, knees almost touching. Close enough to share warmth. Neither of you speaks at first, but it isn’t awkward. It never is. There's something about Trevor when he's like this—not performing, not distant—that makes the silence feel almost… honest.

You both watch the skyline for a while. Some drunk laughter echoes from a street below, far enough away to feel unreal. The cigarette stays unlit.

Eventually, Trevor exhales—not a sigh, not quite—just a breath that sounds like he finally let one part of himself go for the night.

Then, barely above a whisper, he says: “I think I finally feel tired.” His head tilts your way, lids heavy, voice low. “It’s weird. Being up here with you… makes me feel safe.”

He lets the words hang there, no joke or deflection to soften them. For once, he doesn’t backtrack. Doesn’t rush to fill the silence that follows. He just leans his head back against the ledge and lets his eyes flutter half-shut, like he might actually fall asleep in front of someone for the first time in years.

His hand rests beside yours on the cool rooftop. He doesn’t move it closer—but he doesn’t pull it away either.

The night stays still around you. The wind brushes the edge of your sleeve. Somewhere far off, a siren wails and fades again. But here, in this quiet moment, Trevor looks more like himself than he ever has—unguarded, exhausted, and quietly hoping you’ll stay a little longer.