She’s watching me.

Watching us.

Wait, no, it’s more than that: she’s videoing us.

She’s holding her iPhone at chest level, but it’s pointed right at us and she keeps glancing down at the screen like she’s checking her framing. This is just like what she was doing the other night at the gallery.

I don’t want to be videoed.

A wave of heat flows through me. I need water.

I look back to Noah, he’s grinning down at me.

‘I’m thirsty,’ I say, moving back to the kitchen. Noah follows me.

‘Hey, are you okay?’ He places his palm on my lower back as I reach for a glass, rinse it out and fill it with water.

‘Yeah, I just feel weird,’ I say. ‘Dizzy.’ I take a sip of water and glance back towards Sabine. I can’t see her anymore. She must have moved on to someone else now.

‘Come,’ he says.

We move out of the studio, into the hallway and through a steel door that looks like it might lead to a parking garage but doesn’t. Instead, it leads to a set of brightly lit cement stairs that smell of damp. He’s already taking them two at a time.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask as I grab onto the bannister and follow him up.

‘To get you some air.’ He smiles back at me.

Soon we’re at the top, I’m breathless and he’s pushing open another big metal door. A gush of air as cool as a supermarket freezer hits my cheeks. He moves aside to let me pass and then the door clicks shut after us; the quiet is a relief. A single light glows from above the door.

We’re standing on a small rooftop. There’s a sturdy cement barrier in front of us and some sort of ramshackle tin shelter in the corner of the back wall. There’s something underneath it, pushed up against the bricks: a couple of striped deckchairs. He flicks a switch and a series of small orange lanterns glow on the periphery.

A breeze catches my hair, and I hold it in one hand as I follow Noah towards the wall and look out at the view: the twinkling lights of Paris sprawl before us like a big black velvet blanket covered in sequins and glitter. I can see the glow of the Eiffel Tower in the distance.

‘It’s beautiful, right?’ he asks.

I nod.

‘Better up here?’

‘Much better,’ I say. We’re standing close enough that our arms are touching. His hands on the railing are big and rough and his nails are flecked with paint. I gaze at his wrist. His forearm. His bicep. Without thinking, I reach out and trace the ka-pow tattoo with my finger.

‘This is cool,’ I say, as our eyes meet. Something changes behind his. I try to read it in the low light but I can’t.

‘I got it for my little brother,’ he says, his voice cracking as he pulls a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. He offers me one and I take it. He lights his first, then holds it up so I can light mine off the end.