(Izzy POV)
I'm sprawled cross-legged on my dorm room floor, charcoal smudging my fingers black as I drag it across the paper, jagged lines cutting everywhere. My sketch is a mess, sharp edges, a face half-formed, eyes glaring outta nowhere, nothing making sense. Punk music blasts through my headphones, screaming guitars, pounding drums, loud enough to choke out the crap spinning in my head. It doesn't work, Mom's voice keeps clawing through, all bubbly and fake, yapping about her new guy. Antonio Rossi. I stab the pencil harder, tip snaps, cracks loud, and I curse, flicking the broken bit away. Mafia prick. A goddamn criminal. Dad's rolling in his grave, and she's too busy giggling to care.
Dad was a cop, solid, honest, the real deal. He got shot when I was twelve, some scumbag in a deal gone sideways, left him bleeding out on a dirty street. Mom bawled for a year straight, then started chasing guys with cash, big wallets, bigger egos. Now it's Antonio, and she's acting like he's her knight in shiny loafers. I saw his name once in Dad's old files, yellowed pages, scribbled notes, tied to drugs, blood, bodies. She's marrying him tomorrow, and it makes me wanna hurl every time it hits me. I rip the sketch in half, paper tears loud, toss it across the room, black streaks on my hands. Screw her glittery penthouse bullshit. I'm not going to that wedding, no way in hell.
My phone buzzes on the bed, vibrates hard, rattling the frame. Marco. "Rooftop. Now." My chest loosens just a bit, he's my out, my lifeline in this dumpster fire. I grab my jacket, leather, beat-up, shove my sketchbook under my arm, bolt out. The dorm hall's dead quiet, just the buzz of flickering lights and some jackass cackling too loud down the way. I don't care, I need air, need him. I push outside, Queens is alive, cars honking, streetlights humming, wet pavement shining under the drizzle.
I climb the fire escape of the old art building, metal's cold, slick under my hands, creaking with every step. I hit the roof, and Marco's there, leaning on the ledge, dark hair messy, whipping in the wind. He's 22, taller than me, tattoos snaking up his arms, dark ink, secrets I don't ask about. He's got this brooding vibe, quiet, intense, like he's hauling something heavy he won't share. Fine by me, I've got my own garbage.
"Hey," he says, voice low, turning to me. City lights catch his eyes, sharp, alive, pulling me in. I drop my stuff, sketchbook thumps, step closer, punk still ringing in my ears even without the headphones.
"Hey," I shoot back, shove my hands in my pockets so I don't fidget like some nervous kid. He smirks, half-smile that gets me every damn time, pulls me in close. His jacket smells like leather and smoke, rough but good, and I lean into it. We've been doing this for weeks, meeting up, talking, letting the world blur out. He gets me, doesn't pry when I'm pissed, just listens, lets me breathe. Tonight, I need that more than air.
"Bad day?" he asks, hands sliding to my waist, warm through my shirt. I nod, don't wanna dump it all yet. Mom, her mafia creep, too ugly, too raw.
"Yeah. You?" I tilt my head, look up at him, his jaw tightens for a flash, then he shrugs.
"Same old," he says, but it's off, dodging, like always. Family stuff, maybe, he never talks about his dad, just flips it with that grin. I let it slide, we're good like this, no deep cuts, just us.
Wind kicks up, tugging my hair, sharp and cold. I step closer, he pulls me in tighter. "You're freezing," he mutters, rubbing my back, hands strong. I laugh, short, bark of a sound.
"I'm fine." Not true, my gut's knotted, Mom's giddy voice still echoing, like she's erasing Dad, erasing me. He doesn't need that mess.
He tilts my chin up with his thumb, touch warm, rough. "You sure?" His eyes dig into mine, peeling back layers, and I feel it, that pull, like he sees me, all of me. I don't answer, just lean in. His lips hit mine, hard, hungry, and it's like a switch flips, anger, hurt, Mom's stupid wedding, gone. Just him, hands knotting in my hair, breath crashing with mine. I press closer, fingers digging into his jacket, gripping like he's all I've got. This, him, is what I need, what I'm clawing for.
We kiss like we're out of time, rough, fast, teeth clashing, city humming below us, alive and loud. My heart's pounding, I don't care, don't stop. He pulls back first, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine. "Izzy," he says, voice gravelly, "you're trouble."
I grin, catching my breath, chest heaving. "You like it." He laughs, soft, low, kisses me again, slower, deeper. It's perfect, he's perfect, my anchor when everything's sinking.
We sit after, backs against the ledge, skyline sprawling out, lights cutting through the haze. My sketchbook's open between us, he flips through, fingers brushing the pages, smudging charcoal a little. "These are good," he says, pausing on one, guy's face, half-shadowed, rough lines. It's him, won't say it though.
"Thanks," I mumble, face heating up, ducking my head. He doesn't push, just keeps looking, shoulder bumping mine, easy, quiet. I could stay here forever, just us, no wedding, no mafia bullshit, but tomorrow's barreling in, unstoppable.
"You ever think about running away?" I toss out, half-joking, picking at a hole in my jeans. He goes still, then nods.
"All the time," he says, voice low, heavy. "You?"
"Yeah." I think of Mom's laugh, Antonio's name in Dad's files, blood and dirt. "Maybe we should."
He turns to me, eyes serious, cutting through the dark. "Maybe." Something's there, unsaid, hanging, but I don't dig. Not tonight.
We talk after, dumb stuff, music, movies, dodging the real crap. The city glows, and for a bit, it's just us, no past, no tomorrow. It gets late, class looms, he walks me back to the fire escape, hand in mine, warm, steady.
"See you tomorrow?" I ask, hopping down a step, looking up. He nods, but his smile fades, eyes go dark.
"Yeah. Tomorrow." His voice is off, weighted, strange. I tilt my head, confused.
"What's up?" I step back up, close again. He shakes his head, pulls me in, kisses me quick, hard, like he's clinging.
"Nothing," he says, letting go, hands dropping. "Just… tomorrow's gonna change everything."
I laugh, brush it off. "Okay, cryptic." He smirks, but it's thin, eyes stay shadowed, watching me climb down. I hit the ground, wave, head back to the dorm. His words stick though, change everything? What's that about? I shake it off, he's just being Marco, all moody and weird. Tomorrow's just another day. Right?