The gym was dressed up like it was trying too hard — fairy lights, a paper moon, fake leaves strung from the ceiling. Someone’s mom had gone all in on the “Thanksgiving Ball” idea, but the speakers were buzzing and the punch tasted like watered-down Sprite.

You were standing by the wall, drink in hand, trying to ignore how long it was taking for Kyle Scheible to come back from wherever he’d disappeared to. He’d said two minutes — which in Kyle-time meant at least ten.

When he finally appeared, it was with his hands shoved into his pockets and that too-casual smirk that made it impossible to tell if he was happy to see you or just bored again.

“Sorry,” he muttered, barely glancing at you as he handed over a cup of punch. “Ran into some people.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I saw. You looked busy.”

He shrugged, eyes flicking around the room instead of meeting yours. “Didn’t think you’d mind. You don’t really like these things anyway.”

It stung, even if he wasn’t wrong. You didn’t like these things — the fake laughter, the fluorescent lights trying to be romantic — but you did like him. Enough to show up, to wear the dress he said he liked, to stand here while he avoided you like small talk was contagious.

You forced a smile, swirling what was left of your drink. “You’re right. I don’t.”

He gave a short laugh — dry, detached. “Then why’d you come?”

“Because you asked me to.”

That made him pause, just barely. He looked down, thumb brushing the rim of his cup. For a second, he almost seemed like he might say sorry — but instead, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, slipping it between his lips like it was easier to smoke than talk.

“You can’t light that in here,” you murmured, glancing around the gym.

He smirked. “You think anyone cares?”

You rolled your eyes, but when he flicked the lighter and the flame caught, you didn’t move away. The smoke curled between you — sharp, sweet, familiar. He took a slow drag, then tilted his head toward you. “You want?”

You hesitated. Then nodded.

He leaned in just enough for you to take it from his fingers. The paper was warm from his mouth. You inhaled, felt it burn a little, exhaled toward the blinking lights overhead.

For a minute, neither of you said anything. Just passing the cigarette back and forth, pretending it wasn’t weird. Pretending you weren’t both thinking about how far away he’d felt lately.

Kyle must’ve seen it in your face because he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You look nice, by the way,” he said, finally meeting your eyes.

You glanced at him — the flicker of the lighter catching on his jawline, the messy hair falling into his eyes. “You say that like it surprises you.”

He huffed a small laugh, not quite a smile. “Guess I forget sometimes.”

You didn’t answer. The smoke hung in the air between you, and the song changed again — something slow, too sentimental for the gym.

Kyle looked at you then, really looked, before flicking ash into an empty cup. “We can stay,” he said quietly, like it was a compromise.

You nodded.

And so you did — standing there in the half-dark, sharing a cigarette beneath the fairy lights, saying nothing at all but somehow meaning everything.