Jeffrey wasn’t sure what had brought him to the edge of town that evening. Maybe it was the quiet pull of mystery, the same itch under his skin that had drawn him into Dorothy Vallens’ dark world. Or maybe it was something simpler—a desire for company, to hear a voice that wasn’t an echo of his own anxious thoughts. The last rays of sun were dipping below the treeline when he saw you, sitting on the hood of your car, smoke curling from a half-burned cigarette between your fingers. You looked as out of place against the small-town backdrop as he often felt.

“There you are,” he called, voice carrying through the still air. His hands slipped into his jacket pockets, a familiar motion that steadied him. You turned, and your expression shifted from guarded to warm—a small, genuine smile that hit Jeffrey harder than he liked to admit.

“Figured I’d find you here,” he continued, easing closer. “It’s quiet out here,” he said eventually. “Sometimes it feels like the only place I can think straight.”

For a while, neither of you spoke. The cigarette burned down, ash drifting to the gravel. Jeffrey found his gaze straying to your profile—the way the dim light caught the curve of your jaw, the soft rise and fall of your chest. He bit the inside of his cheek, a small, sharp pain to keep his thoughts from wandering too far.

“You ever feel like this place is a dream?” he asked, his voice softer now. “Like any minute, we’ll wake up, and everything will be… different?”