Dodge leaned against the hood of his rusted-out truck, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, smoke curling like the lies they used to tell themselves. His cowboy hat—dusty white, maybe tan now from wear—cast a shadow over his eyes, but {{user}} didn’t need to see them to know he was looking at her.

Three years. Three encounters. And this one felt the heaviest.

The air was warm but sharp. Small-town silence stretched thin between them, only broken by the flick of his lighter and the clink of her bottle against the tailgate.

"You still drink that shit?" he asked, voice rough, low.

{{user}} rolled her eyes, leaning beside him but keeping just enough space to pretend it didn’t mean anything. "And you still smoking like it's your last breath?"

He let out a half-laugh, all bitterness and ash. "Might be."

She didn’t answer. Just stared out at the road like it had answers.

"You ever think about it?" Dodge asked after a long pause.

"About what?"

He turned, finally really looking at her, jaw tight. “About what it could’ve been. Us.”

She swallowed, looked away. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting,” he said. “I never stopped.”

That shut her up.

She didn’t move when he got closer, didn’t flinch when he reached over and took the bottle from her hand. He took a swig, winced, then smirked. “Still tastes like bad decisions.”

“That’s the point,” she muttered.

Another silence. Another weight.

"You’re still with him?" Dodge asked, voice too casual to be anything but loaded.

Her mouth opened, then closed. “It’s not—”

He stepped back, dragging on his cigarette. “Nah. Don’t lie. Not to me.”