you find her outside the alibi, leaning against the wall with a cigarette between her fingers and that usual scowl tugging at her lips. there’s a beat up flannel tied around her waist, her boots scuffed like she’s been pacing. when she sees you, the corner of her mouth twitches up, but just barely.

“you’re late,” she mutters, flicking ash onto the sidewalk.

“you’re always early,” you shoot back, stepping up close enough that your arm brushes hers. she doesn’t move away.

there’s a long pause before she glances over at you. “you look good.”

you smirk. “you trying to flirt with me, milkovich?”

she scoffs, eyes rolling as she takes another drag. “fuck off,” she says, but she’s smiling now—just a little.

you know her well enough not to call her out on it. instead, you reach out and pluck the cigarette from her fingers, take a drag, then hand it back. her gaze lingers on your mouth a second too long before she looks away, jaw tightening.

“mickey saw me with you last week,” she says suddenly.

“and?”

“and he asked if it was serious.”

you cock your head. “what’d you say?”

sandy hesitates, staring at the pavement. “i told him to mind his own goddamn business.”

you wait. she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. finally, she looks up, eyes softer than her voice.

“but… yeah. it’s serious. for me.”