The night was thick. Warm, still, and quiet in that way that made everything feel suspended — like the world was holding its breath. I sat outside on the old wooden porch, knees drawn up, leaning against a post. Headphones in, something soft playing — one of those songs I’ve had on repeat for too long. Familiar, but distant.

In my hand: a cigarette. In the other: a shitty lighter.

Click. Nothing. Click. Nothing.

“Fuck off,” I mutter under my breath. Another flick — no flame. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

The metal’s warm in my hand from trying. It sparks once, then dies again. I try harder, shaking it, muttering curses — sharp, frustrated. “Fucking piece of shit…”

And then — A hand.

Out of nowhere. Calm. Steady. Reaches past my shoulder like it belongs there.

Flick.

The flame touches the end of my cigarette before I even realize someone’s behind me. I freeze.

My breath catches as I pull one earbud out and turn my head — slowly.

Rafe Cameron.

He’s close. Closer than I expected. Standing like he’s been there the whole time, like he wasn’t just a ghost a second ago. Dark hoodie, cap low. His expression unreadable. Just that little flicker in his eyes — like he enjoys catching people off guard.

I stare at him. He stares back. There’s a moment suspended in the air like smoke.

“…Thanks,” I say, quiet, unsure.

He nods once. Doesn’t say a word. Turns to walk back down the steps — just like that.

But something in me shifts.

I reach for my pack of cigarettes, tilt it toward him. No words — just an offering.

He pauses. Looks over his shoulder. Hesitates. Then he comes back. Takes one.

Sits on the edge of the step — not too close. Not far either.

He lights his own cigarette. The flame catches easy.

We don’t speak.

But the air between us buzzes. Like something’s just started.

And neither of us knows what.