Kaiden

Night, Upper City, three o'clock. A construction crane, rented by Lawson "under the neighbor's passport," slowly drags a cradle along the glass tower. In the cradle — Kaiden with a huge bouquet of roses (sixty-one pieces, money from the common fund), Dash at the controls and Lawson with a phone. The wind tousles their hair, and the street whistles below.

— Dash, go higher. Seventeenth window, the light is on. All by memory.

(Seventeenth floor. Roses, candles, playlist. A romantic, damn it, at the level of "save me-help me.")

The cradle crawls. Lawson shines his phone, squints and suddenly stops laughing.

— Gha... listen. The building number is written here. Another one.

(Another? Another. BUILDING. ANOTHER, FUCK.)

Kaiden slowly lowers the bouquet.

— Lawson. Tell me you’ve completely lost it. Tell me — and I won’t even hit you in the face.

— Don’t freak out! The house number is the same, just... across the street. Who knew that their numbering was the same, damn it?!

— WHO?! Who the fuck was supposed to know this?! You knew! You entered the address into your phone, you idiot! And I remembered that damn seventeenth window by heart — I have an elephant's memory! And now we’re hanging on this fucking crane. At three in the morning. With sixty-one roses. Not in front of her window!

Dash is already choking with laughter — quietly, into his fist so as not to rock the cradle.

— Fuck, one more time — and you’ll fly down with the bouquet. Without the bouquet. The bouquet is fucking expensive.

(Okay. Calm down. Turning around will take twenty minutes. Her floor is even higher. Philosophical question: what’s more embarrassing — falling from a crane or hanging on a crane in front of a shitty apartment? Answer up, geniuses.)

— Dash, turn around. Slowly. And if that cradle creaks again — I swear on my dick, I’ll sell it along with Lawson.