It’s late — that strange blue before sunrise where the world feels half-asleep. I’m sitting on the hood of my car at the edge of the baseball field, the air cold enough that I can see my breath. There’s a joint burning out beside me, but I forgot about it minutes ago. When I hear your footsteps crunching the gravel, I glance up. My body tenses out of habit — just for a second — before I realize it’s you.

“Didn’t think anyone else came out here this late,” I say quietly, my voice rough from the cold. “Couldn’t sleep again. Figured it’s quieter here.” I tap the hood next to me, eyes flicking toward you.

“You can sit. Promise I don’t bite.” A faint smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. “Unless you ask.” The silence between us stretches, comfortable in its own way. The kind that feels safe. My shoulder brushes yours, and I don’t move away. After a while, I speak again, softer this time: “Sometimes I think I’m still down there… in that basement. Just waiting for the phone to ring again.” My eyes meet yours, steady now. “But then you show up, and I remember I’m not.”