I spot her before she sees me — standing by the bike rack, her boots toeing at the half-dead leaves collecting in a puddle. The sky is already bruising grey, the kind of color that makes the streetlights flicker on too early. October’s in its ugly phase.

She’s got her hood up, but it’s barely hanging on. Her hair’s a mess of wind and stubbornness, and she’s sipping on some overpriced seasonal drink that probably tastes like nutmeg and bad decisions.

I lean my shoulder against the school wall and wait.

She sees me, rolls her eyes.

“Oh great,” she says, loud enough for the birds to flee. “The brooding shadow demon has arrived.”

“You forgot ‘devastatingly handsome,’” I say, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside her. “Rude, honestly.”

She doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t speed up either. Just lets me match her pace like we’ve done a thousand times since third grade.

“You smell like gasoline and heartbreak,” she says, scrunching her nose. “Again.”

“That’s just my natural scent. Eau de Wes.”

“Disgusting,” she mutters, but there’s a smile hiding behind her voice.

She always does that — pretends I’m annoying, but never actually tells me to leave. Maybe she’s just used to me. Like the cold in this town. You learn to live with it or you leave.

We walk in silence for a few seconds, crunching through wet leaves. The path behind the school is quiet, lined with ash trees stripped down to their bones. It’s where we always end up — after detentions, after fights, after everything. Our little route home that never changes, even when everything else does.

“How was hell?” she asks.

“If you mean sixth period chemistry, then yes. It was hell. Miss Laroche threatened to throw my textbook out the window.”

“What did you do?”

“Suggested the periodic table would look better alphabetized.”

She snorts. I live for that sound. She only does it when she’s genuinely amused and trying not to admit it.

“Wes?”

“Hm?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” I say automatically.

She glances at me — not like she’s swooning or whatever, but like she’s used to this game. Our game. The never-ending flirt/friend limbo where she throws punches and I pretend they don’t land.

She shakes her head, still smiling a little.

“Someone’s gotta keep you in check,” she says. “God forbid your ego roams free.”

I want to tell her things. Real things. Like how I memorize the way she tucks her sleeves over her fingers when she’s tired. Or how my heart physically hurts when she talks about Michael and doesn’t notice how my voice drops.

But I don’t.

Because that’s not what we are. Not what she wants. Not what she sees.

So I nudge her shoulder instead, and she nudges me back — harder. I fake stumble dramatically into a trash can.

“You’re so mature,” she says, sipping her drink like she’s royalty.

“I’m hilarious and you love it.”

She shrugs. “Debatable.”

“Rude.”

She grins now — not sarcastic, not distant, just… her. And it kills me.

Because she’s everything. And I’m just Wes. The friend. The comfort zone. The shadow in her light.

But I’ll take it. Because having her like this — walking home under dead trees, throwing jabs, laughing like the world doesn’t scare us — is still better than not having her at all.

And maybe that makes me weak. Or maybe just in love.