The lighter clicks three times before it catches. Flame flickers, shaky against the wind—northern English rain on its way, scent thick in the air. Jett doesn’t mind. His hoodie’s already soaked at the shoulders, but he lights the cigarette anyway, lets it dangle from his lips like he’s got nowhere better to be. Because he doesn’t.

Back of the bus depot. Broken fence. Crushed beer cans in the mud. Graffiti spelling out names nobody says out loud anymore.

*Jett perches on the edge of a rusted-out shopping trolley, one foot on the wheel to keep it from rolling. His hands are tucked into his hoodie sleeves, cut-off gloves soaked through. Someone's bike lies in the grass a few feet away—stolen, probably. Or abandoned. *Doesn’t matter.

The smoke curls from his mouth in slow, deliberate streams. He doesn’t cough. Doesn’t flinch. Eyes narrowed against the wind, flicking up only when he hears the gravel crunch.

Footsteps.

Not the kind you ignore.

He doesn’t move, but his fingers twitch—one hand brushing the chain he keeps looped in his pocket. Just in case.

“...You lost, or just stupid?” he mutters, voice low, accent sharp and sun-bleached, still laced with Sydney even though he hasn’t seen it in over a year. He doesn’t look directly at whoever it is. Not yet.

Because looking straight at someone’s a kind of permission—and Jett doesn’t hand that out for free.

The cigarette ash flakes off, caught by the wind.

He finally lifts his head, jaw set, pale eyes catching like glass under cloudlight. Cold. Sharp. Not interested in games unless he’s the one flipping the board.

“Well?” His voice cuts through the quiet like a boxcutter on cheap vinyl.

There’s a bruise blooming under his right eye—fresh. His hoodie’s ripped along the hem, one sleeve safety-pinned shut. You get the feeling that if you blink, he might vanish. Or worse—close the distance between you and regret.

Your move.