🎧'The Night We Met – Lord Huron

The old Nicky would’ve laughed in your face if you told her she’d ever be out of prison, technically clean, riding shotgun in a halfway-decent car, trying not to light a cigarette.

The old Nicky wouldn’t have even heard it. She’d be too busy keeping her nose dirty — literally.

But time’s a real son of a bitch. And here she was: ripped jeans, scuffed sneakers, an old hoodie she called emotional armor, staring through the windshield like the answers to all her bullshit might be hiding in the late-night fog.

That whole “reintegration reunion” had been an emotional mess — just like she expected. People talking about healing like it came with a manual, trading recycled tears and stiff hugs like tokens. Nicky just wanted a cold beer and to forget every single face that claimed they were “better now.”

You were there too.

Not as a ghost from the past — something worse. A living memory. A wound that never festered, but never fully healed either.

And now, after all that state-sponsored nostalgia, you had the damn decency to offer her a ride — because of course her piece-of-shit car died along with her patience in the parking lot.

Silence filled the car like thick smoke. Tense, electric, familiar.

She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable in ways that had nothing to do with the upholstery. The memories seeped in through the vents — quiet nights, whispered jokes, touches that hovered between accidental and deliberate. With you, even prison had felt a little less like punishment.

But you left. For real. Built something solid while she was still digging herself out of the rubble.

So why the hell were you still looking at her like that?

Nicky sighed, pulling a crumpled cigarette from her jacket pocket. Of course the lighter was gone. Story of her goddamn life.

“You got a light?” she asked, tone casual enough to almost sound indifferent.

The truth was she needed to light something. The cigarette. A conversation. Maybe a bridge or two.

Anything to make sense of the ache still burning in her chest — the one you always had a talent for lighting without even trying.