Rooftop Reunion
831 Words
The sun crept over the city like it was afraid to wake the streets. Rafael Cruz was already awake, sitting on the edge of a rooftop like a man unsure whether he was supposed to be alive.
He hadn't slept—unless you counted the ten minutes he'd accidentally nodded off with a half-eaten pretzel in his mouth and dreamed he was being chased by a giant mop.
His hoodie was still damp from the riverbank. His shoes squeaked when he walked. And he was starting to smell like week-old noodles. But for now, he was safe. Ish.
Across the rooftop, pigeons judged him.
“You ever get the feeling life is laughing at you and not with you?” he asked one of them.
The bird blinked and pooped on a wire.
"Thanks, buddy. Insightful."
He sighed and pulled his hood tighter. Somewhere out there, Kathleen was either furious, worried, or both. He wasn’t sure which was scarier. Maybe both. Definitely both.
Kathleen was driving.
Faster than she should. Angrier than she looked. One hand on the wheel, the other on her phone.
“Tell me again,” she barked, “how did your surveillance lose a guy who escapes like a drunk toddler?”
The voice on the other end stammered. “We—we think he went toward the east docks—"
“I’m already there. Try harder.”
She hung up and took a sharp turn, tires screaming in protest. She was running on fumes—no sleep, bruised fists, a burning in her chest she refused to call panic.
She’d been scared. But admitting that felt like weakness.
She didn’t care about the job. Or the cartel. Or even who betrayed her. Not right now. Not when he could be dead.
Rafael stood, stretched, and instantly regretted it. A pulled muscle somewhere in his back screamed, and he nearly toppled off the ledge.
“Smooth,” he muttered. “Just one graceful move at a time.”
He picked up the pretzel bag and turned—only to freeze.
Kathleen was standing at the fire escape.
She looked like hell. A beautiful, furious storm of bruises, sweat, and determination. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, neither said a word.
There was a flicker in her gaze—just a flicker. Relief. A sharp breath caught in her throat. Her lips parted like she might say something soft, something real.
Then the wall went back up.
She crossed her arms. “You smell like a wet sock.”
He blinked. “You punched a man into a dumpster for me.”
“Three men,” she corrected, stepping onto the roof.
“Marry me.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t move. “I saw the footage. You didn’t talk.”
He shrugged. “Didn’t know much to say. Also, I figured the more I talked, the more likely I’d insult someone’s haircut and get stabbed.”
Kathleen crossed the roof to him, slow steps, eyes never leaving his.
“You’re an i***t,” she said.
“Frequently.”
She was close now. Close enough for him to see the red around her knuckles. The tight set of her jaw. But also—something else. Something raw under the surface.
“I thought you were dead.”
“I thought I was gonna die in a broom closet. But here we are.”
She looked away for a second, blinking rapidly. She hated how warm her chest felt. How stupidly happy she was to see his dumb face, even with the mop water smell.
Then she punched him.
Right in the arm.
“Ow!”
“That’s for making me chase you across the city.”
He rubbed his arm. “Fair.”
Silence hung between them again, heavy and strange.
Kathleen took a breath, then muttered, “I missed your stupid voice.”
Rafael blinked. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“No, no—I heard something tender in there. Was that... was that affection?”
She squinted. “Don’t push it.”
He grinned. “Pushing it is literally the only thing I’m good at.”
She hesitated.
Then she hugged him.
It wasn’t soft. Or delicate. It was hard, fast, and clumsy—just like him. But it was real. And for once, Rafael didn’t have a joke. He just held her back.
“I’m glad you’re not dead,” she whispered.
“I’m glad you found me before I died of pretzel poisoning.”
She pulled away too quickly. The walls went back up, but not all the way.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“Where?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“Safe sounds nice.”
They climbed down the fire escape together, bruised, exhausted, and one step closer to the truth.
Behind them, in the shadows of the rooftop, a small drone beeped.
Watching. Recording.
Blanco was always watching.
And the game wasn’t over yet.
- Writer
