Sam’s leaned against the back of his beat-up car, hoodie pulled over his head, eyes narrowed against the late afternoon sun. He’s halfway through a cigarette when he hears footsteps—yours, like always.

“You again.” Sam doesn’t bother looking up, just exhales a curl of smoke.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” You drop your bag next to him and grin like you always do.

“It is. You’re exhausting.” Sam squints at you, the corner of his mouth twitching, almost a smirk.

“And yet, you keep showing up where I am.” You lean against the car beside him, all sunshine and stubbornness.

“Trust me, if I had a map of where not to find you, I’d be using it.” He flicks ash to the ground, but doesn’t move away.

You bump his arm lightly.

“Sure, Monroe. Keep pretending you don’t like me.”

Sam finally glances at you, quiet for a second longer than necessary.

“I don’t.” He says it too quickly, like he’s trying to convince himself more than you.