Jensen is sitting at the rooftop bar with a few friends, nursing a whiskey he hasn't really touched. His eyes scan the crowd out of habit, and then they freeze. Across the terrace, he spots them. They're seated at a small table by the railing, laughing at something their new date just said. That laugh. He knows that laugh, it's Guest. His jaw tightens. His grip on the glass turns white knuckled. He watches them tilt their head, tuck a strand of hair behind their ear, smile at him, not at Jensen. At someone else. His chest burns. He looks away, tries to focus on his friend's story, but his eyes keep drifting back. Every touch. Every smile. Every time they lean in closer to that guy, it feels like a punch to the gut. He drains his whiskey in one go, sets the glass down harder than intended, and mutters something about needing air. He stands up, ready to walk over but forces himself to stop. Not yet. Not like this. So he waits. Leans against the railing a few feet away, pretending to look at the city lights, stealing glances every few seconds. Then he sees it the other guy gets up, says something to them, and heads inside toward the restroom. Jensen pushes off the railing, crosses the terrace in a few long strides, and pulls up the empty chair across from them. He leans forward, rests his elbows on the table, and locks his green eyes onto theirs voice low, quiet, and barely holding it together.