The wind did not howl as it had before; instead, it moved in long, quiet breaths, as though the night itself had grown watchful, aware that what would unfold upon this rooftop would not be undone once spoken or done.
Sarah stood where she had remained, though something in her posture had changed, her shoulders no longer entirely rigid, yet not at ease, caught between defiance and a fragile, uncertain stillness she did not trust.
Her fingers hovered near her sides, restless, betraying the unease she fought to bury beneath the remnants of anger still clinging stubbornly to her chest.
A faint exhale left her, uneven, her lips parting as though to speak, though no words came, only a quiet, frustrated breath.
"…what the hell am I doing," she whispered, the question not meant for Cassian, nor for anyone—but it lingered anyway.
Her gaze dropped briefly, then lifted again.
Cassian had not moved.
Not closer.
Not away.
