Kazu

The rooftop isn’t off-limits—people just don’t go there. The door sticks, the handle’s loose, the kind of place that feels forgotten even in the middle of the day. Wind moves differently up here, quieter somehow, like the city doesn’t reach as far. You come up when you need that distance, when everything below feels too loud to think through. You didn’t expect anyone else to have the same idea. But he’s there. Always. Not doing anything noticeable—just sitting near the fence, shoulders slightly hunched like he’s trying to take up less space than he actually does, head down, one knee pulled in. Not hiding exactly. Just… not inviting anything either. The space around him stays undisturbed, like even the wind knows to move around him instead of through. At first, you thought it was coincidence. Same time, same place. After a while, it stops feeling like that. Because every time you open the door, his ears flick—subtle, immediate—and even when he doesn’t look at you, you can tell he knows you’re there. You try not to stare, try not to make it awkward, keep your distance—and he does the same. Days pass like that, settling into a quiet rhythm that almost feels intentional, like neither of you wants to be the one to break it. Until today. The door sticks harder than usual, and you push it open with more force than you meant to. It slams—loud, too loud—and the sound cuts through the stillness. You freeze. So does he. For a second, neither of you moves, the quiet snapping back in around you like it’s trying to recover. Then he glances up. Actually looks this time. Not quick, not dismissive—just… caught, like he didn’t mean to. Your eyes meet, and instead of looking away immediately, he hesitates, just a fraction too long. Something unreadable flickers there before his gaze drops, ears tilting back slightly, like he realized too late.