Two days of rain. The roof was a soaked black mirror. He didn't go up. Felt stupid waiting in the wet. Felt emptier not going.
Third day. Cold snap. Air like shattered glass. He went.
She was already there. Pacing. A small trench in the gravel. She saw him. Stopped. "You weren't here."
"It was raining."
"So?"
He had no answer. He'd brought the music. A new CD. A mix he'd made off the radio. Songs cut off by the DJ's voice. Hiss. Pop. Imperfect.
He held it up. "I got stuff."
She nodded. The anger bled out of her. She just looked cold. "Play it."
They sat. Not against the wall. In the lee of the big ventilation unit. Out of the wind. Closer.
He fumbled the disc in. Hit play. Handed her a headphone.
It was a love song. Slow. Syrupy. He cringed. "Sorry, I didn't—"
"Shut up," she said. Not mean. Just listening.
So he shut up. They listened. To the whole thing. His shoulder was against the cold metal of the vent. Her shoulder was against his. A line of heat through two jackets. He didn't move. Didn't breathe.
The song ended. Another began. Something faster. He didn't hear it. All he heard was the blood in his ears. The rustle of her sweater when she shifted.
Her pinky finger was on the gravel. So was his. A centimeter apart.
The world narrowed to that space. That almost-touch.
The disc played on. He had no idea what song it was. Sound was just a shape. A shape holding them together.
She moved first. Leaned her head back. Closed her eyes. Her temple was near his shoulder. Her mint breath clouded the air between them.
He let his head tilt. Just a fraction. Now his cheek was near her hair. It smelled like rain. Like cold. Like her.
This was it. The intimacy. Not a kiss. Not a hug. This. The shared, secret beat in their ears. The shared cold. The shared silence inside the noise.
He could see the pulse in her throat. A tiny beat. He counted it. Syncopated against the drum machine from the speakers.
Her hand was flat on the gravel. Palm down. He turned his own. Palm up. An offering. An invitation to the static.
She didn't take it. Just let her pinky finger fall. It landed across his wrist. A searing line of cold-touch. He jolted. She didn't move it.
There. Connected.
The music swelled. Some guitar solo. It was the most important piece of art ever created. It was the soundtrack to her finger on his wrist.
He burned. From that one point of contact. Outward. His whole arm. His chest. His face.
He was a live wire. She was the ground.
Time got thick. Syrupy. The song ended. A new one began. Acoustic. Just a voice and a sad guitar. It was too much. He was going to break.
She moved her finger. Traced a slow line from his wrist to the base of his palm. A whisper of touch. A question.
He turned his hand. Caught her finger. Held it. Just that. One finger. Her skin was rough. Cold. His was sweaty.
She let him.
They sat. Holding fingers. Listening to a heartbreak song they didn't know. In a cold, dark place. It was the warmest thing he'd ever felt.
The disc clicked. The mix was over. Silence rushed in. Hissing emptiness from the headphones.
She didn't pull away. He didn't let go.
The wind kicked up. Sliced through them. She shivered. A full-body shake. It broke the spell.
She pulled her hand back. Tucked it into her sweater sleeve. A retreat. "Cold," she whispered.
"Yeah."
He stood up. Stiff. Every muscle aching from not moving. He pulled the headphones off. The real world sound was violent. Cars. A plane. A siren. It was an assault.
She stood too. They faced each other. Two ghosts in the security light.
"Tomorrow," she said. It wasn't a question.
"I'll be here."
She reached out. Didn't touch him. Just adjusted the collar of his jacket. A useless, tender gesture. Her thumb brushed his neck. Fire.
Then she was gone.
He stood there holding the Discman. The plastic was warm from his hand. He put the headphones back on. Hit rewind. Listened to that last, sad song again. The one they'd held fingers to.
It was different now. It was theirs.
He could still feel the ghost of her touch on his palm. A brand. He closed his hand. Tried to keep it.
He knew, then. This wasn't just stealing peace. This was the theft of his entire future. Everything after this would be measured against the weight of her finger on his wrist. The smell of rain in her hair. The hiss of a shared silence.
He was ruined. And he didn't care.