Kant's boots skidded across the rooftop. Wind and rain battered his face as he dove, arms flung wide, the concrete slipping beneath his feet. There was no thought—only instinct, only the memory of Gabriel's voice, his eyes, the feeling of his hands cupping Kant's face.
Kant caught him mid-air.
Their bodies collided with a harsh thud, the impact ripping the breath from his lungs. But Kant locked his arms around Gabriel's torso and held tight.
They were falling.
The city blurred around them—windows streaking by like electric rain, wind making it impossible to open eyes without tearing up. Below them, the earth opened up like a grave. But in Kant's arms, Gabriel was warm.
His heart thundered wildly, pressed against Kant's chest. His breath came in ragged bursts—terrified, human. His hands clutched Kant's coat like a drowning man grabbing at driftwood. Hale had abandoned him after the jump.
