It was past midnight when you slammed the front door behind you. The air outside was colder than expected for early summer, slicing through the thin sleeves of your hoodie like glass. But it didn’t matter. The sting of the wind was nothing compared to the way your mother’s words still echoed in your ears.

“You’ve always been the problem.”

You had heard worse—maybe not in those exact words—but the message had been carved into your skin since childhood. The middle child, the one no one noticed unless something went wrong. Your older brother had always been the golden boy, winning medals and scholarships and praise. Your younger brother was the baby, the excuse for your mother’s tiredness and your father’s absence. And you? You were somewhere in between. The one they forgot to ask how your day was. The one who fed the cats when no one else remembered they existed.

The street was quiet. Suburbs always pretended to sleep deeply at night, but you knew better. Behind every curtain was a mother yelling, a father drinking, a kid sneaking out a window.

You didn’t cry. You hadn’t in years. The tears had dried up the same year your father punched a hole through the kitchen wall and your mother made excuses about how tired he was. You were seven then.

The road bent sharply near the gas station on the corner, the place where the lights buzzed like dying flies. You turned toward it, not because you needed anything, but because going back wasn’t an option. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

That’s when you saw him.

The bike was matte black, parked beneath the flickering streetlight like it belonged in a different world. And he—he looked like trouble. He leaned against the concrete wall, one foot pressed against it, a cigarette resting between his fingers.

He looked up when he heard your footsteps.

You slowed, not out of fear, but something else. Curiosity. Maybe recognition. Not of him, but of what he looked like. Detached. Like someone who had seen enough to stop flinching.

“You lost or just running?” he asked.

His voice was low, like gravel and smoke. You didn’t answer. He didn’t press.

He watched you for a moment, then held the cigarette out toward you. A silent offer.

You hesitated only a second before stepping forward, fingers brushing his as you took it. You’d never smoked before, not really. Once behind the gym, in a circle of girls who laughed too loud. But this felt different. This felt like a choice.

You brought it to your lips, inhaled shallowly. The burn in your throat was sharp, but it grounded you. Your eyes stung, and for a second you wanted to hand it back. Instead, you held it longer.

“I don’t usually share,” he said.