The porch light flickered when he knocked, and when she opened the door, she was already halfway to the stairs, a bottle of wine in one hand, her jacket slung over her arm. “Where you going?” he asked, and she tossed a glance over her shoulder, her lips curving into a half-smile. “Roof. Stars are good tonight.”
He followed her up, the rickety stairs creaking under their weight, and when they reached the top, she was already settled on a folded blanket, the wine open, two glasses set out. “Nice view,” he said, sitting beside her, and she nodded, passing him a glass. “Better with company,” she said, but it wasn’t a softening. More like a challenge.
He asked, quiet, “You want me to stay?” and she turned to him, her eyes sharp in the moonlight. “Only if you can keep up,” she said, and he knew what that meant. No small talk about the weather, no dancing around the things they never said. She wanted the real stuff—the late-night confessions, the messy truths, the kind of conversation that leaves you raw but lighter.
He took a sip of wine, the taste bold and tart on his tongue. “Try me,” he said, and she smiled, the first real one of the night, bright and fierce. They talked until the wine was gone, about regrets and second chances, about the people they used to be and the ones they were trying to become. He kept up, matching her story for story, never flinching when she asked the hard questions.
When the first hint of dawn painted the sky pink, she stood, brushing off her jeans. “Told you,” she said, but there was warmth in it now. He stood too, his legs stiff from sitting so long. “Told me what?” he asked, and she laughed, shouldering her jacket. “That you could keep up.”
He walked her down the stairs, the sun rising behind them, and when they reached the door, she paused, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Same time tomorrow?” she said, and he nodded, because he knew—keeping up with her was the best kind of challenge.