I find Noah on the rooftop, exactly where he used to hide when we were kids.
He's standing at the edge, jacket wrapped tight against the wind, staring down at the city like it owes him something. Or like he's about to jump and steal something back.
The sky is that strange in-between blue — the color right before a storm hits. The kind that doesn't ask for permission.
I take a breath.
Then another.
And say his name.
"Noah."
He doesn't flinch. Just exhales, long and bitter.
"I thought you'd be with him," he says. "Mr. Fake Husband. Mr. Glorified Gun."
"Killian's not the one I'm worried about right now."
He turns.
His eyes are bloodshot.
His tie's gone. Shirt collar unbuttoned. The storm outside is nothing compared to the one behind his eyes.
"I didn't mean for it to happen," he says.
I blink. "Didn't mean for what to happen?"
He laughs. Short. Sad. Crooked. "Don't make me say it."
"Noah—"
"I loved him."
