The party’s dying down. Music thumps faintly from the backyard, broken glass and scattered cups litter the lawn. People are already leaving, stumbling toward the streetlights or their parents’ cars, leaving the corners quiet and empty.

Chloe’s sitting on the curb near the alley, knees pulled up, one elbow resting on her thigh, cigarette dangling between her fingers.

She looks small but dangerous at the same time, like she could snap at any second — or vanish into the shadows. Her jacket’s rumpled, hair sticking up at weird angles, eyes half-hidden under a stubborn frown.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure if you should approach. But something about her — the way she’s so clearly on her own, the way she looks like she’s barely holding herself together

— draws you in.

“Are you okay?” you ask, stepping a little closer.

Chloe glances at you briefly, flicks her cigarette, and shrugs. “Does it look like I’m okay?” Her tone is sharp, defensive, and a little bitter — like she’s daring you to say something she doesn’t want to hear.

You crouch down slightly so you’re at her level, careful not to crowd her. “You’re Chloe, right? Chloe Price?”

Her head snaps up this time, eyes hard and wary, sizing you up like she’s trying to figure out if you’re going to make things worse. “Maybe,” she says quietly, voice clipped. “Why do you care?”

You hold her gaze, trying not to let her intensity get to you. There’s something about the way she’s holding herself, this mix of defiance and exhaustion, that makes your chest tighten. She’s chaos and fire and heartbreak all wrapped into one — and you can’t look away.

Chloe doesn’t speak again immediately. She takes another slow drag of her cigarette, glances at the empty street around her, and for the first time, allows you to stay. Just close enough to see her, just close enough to not be alone.

And somehow… that small allowance feels bigger than anything else she’s given anyone in a long time.