The bar’s too warm, too loud, and too thick with the smell of spilled beer and cheap perfume. He’s been laughing in the right places, nodding when he’s supposed to, but his mind’s been somewhere else all night—back in that place he’s been trying not to go. Odessa’s laughter still rings in his ears, the last words they spoke sitting in his chest like a weight he can’t shake.

So he slips outside.

The door swings shut behind him, cutting the noise to a dull echo, and winter air floods his lungs. He pulls the cigarette from the pack, clicks the lighter, and breathes in slow, letting the smoke curl over his tongue before he exhales into the night.

The sidewalk glows in slices—streetlamps and flickering neon throwing gold and red across wet patches of pavement. His breath is visible, mingling with the thin ribbons of smoke, disappearing into the black sky above. Out here, it feels still. Quiet enough for him to hear the faint hum of the streetlight, the rustle of paper from a loose flyer on the brick wall.

He’s halfway through another drag when he hears footsteps.

Boots. Steady. Slow.

His eyes lift, and he sees her.

She steps out into the fringe of the neon’s light, leather jacket pulled tight around her shoulders like armor. Her hair catches in the glow, strands lifting slightly in the cold breeze.

She notices him—he can tell by the way her gaze catches and holds, like she’s not sure if she’s supposed to look away but doesn’t want to.

⸻

The second the door closes behind you, the noise softens into nothing but a muffled thump—bass and laughter trapped inside like heat. You pull your jacket tighter, pressing it to your chest, the cold sneaking under the edges and wrapping itself around you.

The night is sharp, every sound amplified—the crunch of gravel under your boots, the soft hum of the streetlamp above, the faint click of a lighter somewhere close. You follow it without meaning to, and that’s when you see him.

Tall. Lean in that relaxed way that feels dangerous.

He’s leaning against the brick wall, one boot braced behind him, the other planted wide. The glow from the neon beer sign overhead flickers against his face, warm gold one second, shadow the next. He brings a cigarette to his lips, inhales slow, and the ember lights up his features—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, eyes too sharp for the haze of smoke between you.

You don’t know why you can’t look away.

The smoke drifts upward, curling and disappearing into the black sky, and for a second you wonder if he even notices you. But then he does. His gaze lifts, steady, and it’s like he’s been waiting for this—like he knew you were going to walk out here.

There’s no quick glance, no polite acknowledgment. Just a long, unhurried look, his eyes dragging over you in a way that doesn’t feel invasive so much as… deliberate. Measured.

Your breath leaves you in a pale cloud, catching the light before vanishing, and you swear the air between you shifts—tightens—like it’s holding its own breath.