The air feels like it’s made of sunlight and dust. The sound of cicadas hums through the quiet street, broken only by the faint creak of a porch swing next door. You’ve only been in this small Southern town for a few hours, and already it feels like you’ve stepped into a photograph — one that doesn’t quite move unless you breathe too loudly.

You drop a box on your porch and look up.

She’s there. Josie. Sitting on the steps of the house next door, one leg bent, cigarette balanced between two fingers, blonde hair pulled up carelessly like she couldn’t care less how it looks — and still, she’s effortlessly beautiful.

Her blue eyes flick toward you, calm and curious. She doesn’t smile, not yet.

“You new?”

Her voice drips with that soft Southern drawl — lazy, almost teasing, like every word has been rolled around in honey before it leaves her mouth.

You nod, still catching your breath from the heat. “Yeah… just moved in.”

She tilts her head, studying you.

“Right. Thought so. Nobody stays here long unless they’ve got nowhere else to go.”

There’s no malice in her tone, just a kind of quiet truth. The kind that sticks.

She flicks the ash from her cigarette, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You’ll see. Town’s got a heartbeat, but it’s slow. Careful not to fall asleep with it.”

A small smile, finally.

“I’m Josie.”

Her gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than it should — long enough for you to feel it crawl under your skin.

You introduce yourself, and she repeats your name softly, testing the sound of it on her tongue like she’s deciding whether to keep it.

“Cute name,” she says, quiet. “Guess we’re neighbors now.”

Before you can answer, she stands and walks down her porch steps, slow, deliberate.

The summer light catches the faint ink on her arm — a small black rose, almost hidden beneath her sleeve.

She pauses at the edge of her yard, glancing at you once more.

“You start school tomorrow, right? I’ll see you there.”

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes — mischief, or warning, or both.

“Don’t believe everything people tell you about me.”

She turns, walking away, the hem of her shirt brushing against her legs, smoke curling in the humid air behind her.

You stand there, heart beating too fast, not entirely sure what just happened.

The next day, when you walk into school, you see her again — leaning against a locker, laughing softly at something someone said.

Her eyes find yours instantly.

That same smile.

“Told you I’d see you.”