It was always the same.

Smoke curled in soft spirals above the benches behind Stockhelm’s main building, the smell of burnt tobacco dancing lazily through the cold afternoon air. Lee Maciver sat with his back against the brick wall, one boot kicked out, the other bent at the knee, a half-finished cigarette balancing between two fingers. He looked like he belonged there—half-shadowed, always watching, like he was waiting for something he’d never admit to.

And then she came. Like always. The clack of her shoes against the stone pathway. The way her hair moved when the wind caught it. She didn’t walk like she was lost, but she never went straight to her group. She drifted toward him instead, casual but not quite effortless—like someone hoping they didn’t look like they were hoping for something.

She stopped a few steps away, pretending to check her pockets. He already knew what she’d say. She always asked.

Can I borrow your lighter?

But she never said it today. She didn’t have to. She just held her eyes on him for a beat longer than she should’ve. His fingers moved, already reaching into his coat pocket, already pulling it out, already flicking the flame to life before she was close enough to touch.

He passed it to her like it meant nothing. It did. But he’d never show it.

Her fingers grazed his for half a second longer than necessary.

She lit her cigarette slowly, like she didn’t want to rush this part. Like the flame was something holy. She handed it back without looking. He took it without speaking.

They stood there, side by side, smoke rising in tandem like twin ghosts. Like something shared.

"D'ya always forget your lighter?' Lee asked suddenly.