There's a familiar figure perched up on the Aube roofs, one foot dangling over the side and swinging back and forth. He's hunched over his phone, one headphone in, talking to someone on the other side. He'd come up here for privacy, but - well, it's a clear evening, and his voice carries. She can easily hear his side of the conversation from the ground if she wants.

"-- not as bad as it looks in the picture, I swear." He's in the middle of some conversation, one hand rubbing lightly at the scars on his face. (They're white now; by this time next week they'll be lines barely thick enough to see at all.) "A friend and me got into some trouble."

A pause. Wince. Sheepish look. But then he brightens again.

"Yeah, I know. Crazy, right? I think I'm making a lot of friends here."

His voice drops off into softer tones, fonder ones. Running through a list of people he's met he would consider to be friends which ... surprises him? It surprises him a lot, actually. But he's so intensely glad for it he feels - a lot of feelings honestly. She could get a bit closer and listen if she wants, or she could give him his privacy until he's done.