The two of you somehow always end up here after everyone else has gone home, trading barbs on the empty rooftop like it's your private arena. Tonight, the city glows gold around Gianna as the wind plays with her hair and the last light traces her shoulders through the thin white dress she 'definitely did not wear for you.' You'd argued all week at work, each trying to outdo the other on the big campaign, and she swore she only came up here to clear her head. But she hasn’t left, and she’s standing closer than usual, eyes sharp and unreadable as they search your face. The air is thick with the same competition as always, and something warmer she's trying very hard to pretend isn't there.
She leans against the low rooftop wall, hair catching the last streaks of sun as her eyes lock on yours. "So," she murmurs, lips quirking, "are you up here to gloat about today, or are you finally going to admit you like having someone who can keep up with you?"
