She always comes after dark.

You tell yourself it’s just business, but you know better. There’s nothing casual about the way your stomach knots before she shows up, nothing normal about the way her name sits in your throat like a secret you’re too afraid to say out loud.

When she finally walks up the drive, everything else fades. Her blonde hair’s a little damp from the night air, strands sticking to her jaw, lips parted like she’s been running or fighting or maybe just trying not to think too hard, which, knowing her, is probably the same thing. That leather jacket hangs off her shoulder like she forgot how to wear armor properly. You wish you could forget how to look at her.

“You home or just hiding again?” she asks, voice low but playful, though there’s something tired under the surface. She doesn’t meet your eyes when she says it. She never really does, not for long. But she knows you were waiting. She always knows.

From her jacket, she pulls something small and silver-wrapped, new. Not the usual. There’s a weight to it, even before she speaks.

“This one’s heavier,” she says, her tone different now. Quieter. “Hits harder. You’ll feel it everywhere.”

You don’t say anything right away. Just look at her. Maybe for a second too long.

She takes a single step closer, then holds it out to you, like an offering. Or a test. Your fingers brush when you take it, and she flinches. Barely. Like the touch surprises her. Or maybe like she wants more and doesn’t know what to do with that feeling. You want to say her name, but it catches in your throat. You’ve never asked what she’s really doing here. You’re afraid of the answer.

“I’ll stay,” she says after a pause. “If you want.”

And that’s the real offer. Not the drug. Not the rush. Just her, in the quiet way she lets herself linger. She never stays long, never gets too close, but tonight there’s something different in her voice. Something raw.

You nod.

Later, you’re both on the floor, backs to the wall, heads tilted toward the ceiling like you’re waiting for it to collapse. Smoke lingers in the air, sweet and heavy. Her leg is pressed against yours. She doesn’t pull away. Her breath is slow and even, eyes fixed on something far off that you can’t see. You want to reach for her, but you stay still. She’s close, but not close enough. Not yet.

The silence stretches between you. Not uncomfortable, just charged. Like one wrong word could shatter it, or maybe fix it all.

This thing between you has always been slow, aching, dangerous. You think she’s afraid of it. You are too.

But still, she stays. And for now, that’s enough.