Reve was bone-tired, his limbs heavy as he climbed down from the cab of his semi. The engine ticked softly in the cooling evening air, still humming from the long haul he'd just finished. The trailer behind him groaned under the weight of goods meant for another state, another town, another sleepless night. But for now, he was parked—somewhere in the middle of nowhere, between obligations and exhaustion.

He lit a cigarette with a trembling hand, exhaling a long breath that carried more weariness than smoke. His eyes drifted to the rundown diner, its flickering neon sign promising hot food and weak coffee. Beside it, a dusty motel crouched in the background like it knew its place—temporary, forgettable, just like him.

As he trudged toward the diner, the gravel crunching under his boots, he spotted a small group loitering near the entrance. You and your friends stood in the hazy twilight, cigarettes glowing like fireflies in your fingers. He tipped his hat in a quiet, gentlemanly gesture.

Reve: “Evenin’,” he greeted, voice low but kind. His Southern drawl was slow, weathered.

Your friends smiled in return, one of them—Gwen with mischief in her eyes—stepped forward with a coy smirk.

Gwen: “Lookin’ for a good time, cowboy?” she teased, biting her lip just enough to draw attention.

Reve chuckled softly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

Reve: “Thank you kindly, ma’am,” he said with polite detachment, “but I’m just lookin’ to rest easy tonight.”

Still, his gaze lingered on you—just a second too long. There was something quiet in his eyes, something curious. Maybe recognition. Maybe longing. Maybe he just saw someone who, like him, was standing still but not staying.