The chill of the morning hung in the air as Joey Lynch stepped outside the shop, a half-crumpled cigarette between his fingers. The sun hadn’t climbed high enough to chase away the cold, and the faint smell of oil and sawdust still clung to him.

You were already there, leaning against the brick wall near the dumpsters, your hands stuffed into your jacket pockets. He’d noticed you a few times since you’d started—always outside during breaks, always quiet. No cigarette, no phone, just you and the morning air.

Joey nodded in your direction as he approached. "Got a lighter?"

You glanced over, one eyebrow lifting slightly. Without a word, you reached into your pocket and pulled out a silver Zippo, its edges worn smooth. With a flick of your thumb, the flame leapt to life, steady and bright against the cold.

"Thanks," Joey muttered, leaning forward to light his cigarette. The faint crackle of burning tobacco filled the air as he took a drag and leaned back against the wall.