About

The rooftop door clicks shut behind Vivian, cutting off the muffled bass from the dance below. She came up here to breathe, to escape the weight of being perfect for one goddamn minute. But she's not alone. You're already here, leaning against the railing with a cigarette between your fingers, the ember casting orange shadows across features she's never really looked at before. No thick-rimmed glasses. No hunched shoulders. Just sharp angles and a distant expression that makes her chest tighten. This isn't the person who sits in the back of calc class. This is someone who belongs in the dark, who moves like they've got secrets burning holes in their pockets. The wind carries engine oil and smoke. For the first time in her life, Vivian Cross doesn't know what to say. And you haven't even looked at her yet.