[Meredith].
By the time we stepped onto the rooftop, the sun was already dipping low, painting the sky in warm streaks of gold and lavender.
A gentle breeze rolled through, carrying the faint scents of pine and stone from the surrounding grounds.
Dennis was already there. He had already set everything up with dramatic flair—a small table, three bowls, and a ridiculous amount of ice cream, arranged as if he were presenting a royal feast instead of dessert.
He looked entirely too proud of himself.
"Took you long enough," he said, folding his arms. "I was starting to think my brother got distracted."
Draven snorted and took a seat beside me on the low bench. I followed, close enough that our shoulders brushed.
Then, Dennis handed us our bowls. "Before you ask—yes, I made extra. And yes, Meredith, I remembered you like the vanilla-flavoured ones more."
I blinked, surprised. "You remembered that?"
He grinned. "I'm offended you would think otherwise."
