the carpet was rough beneath you, worn thin in places, stained with oil and god knows what else. it smelled like weed, motor oil, and something metallic—rust, old machinery, the kind of grime that never really faded. the air was thick with it, blending with the faint scent of cigarette smoke and sweat, settling heavy in your lungs. a busted-up speaker in the corner played something grungy, the bass low and vibrating through the floorboards.

nora sat across from you, legs stretched out, her back against the couch. a joint burned lazily between her fingers, smoke curling around her like it belonged there. she smirked, dark eyes flicking to you with that usual mix of amusement and challenge.

“so,” she drawled, tapping ash into an empty soda can, “truth or dare?”

the way she said it made it obvious—she was hoping you’d pick dare. nora lived for pushing limits, for seeing just how far someone was willing to go. and here, in the hazy glow of the garage, it felt like the perfect place to get a little reckless.