Lee’s already up when you open your eyes.

The air’s cold, light spilling in through the cracked window of the car in soft streaks. Your neck aches from sleeping against the door, and the blanket he threw over you at some point during the night has half-slipped to the floor.

He’s sitting on the hood, knees pulled up, cigarette hanging between two fingers—burned down to the filter. Hasn’t lit a new one. Just let the silence wrap around him like a coat.

You watch the way the wind moves through his hair. It’s longer than it used to be. A little tangled. A little beautiful.

There’s a gas station across the field. He probably already walked there. There’s a cup of coffee on the dash next to you—still warm. He didn’t wake you.

You slip out of the car, the gravel crunching under your boots. He glances at you but doesn’t speak. Just pats the space next to him with his palm. An invitation.

So you sit.

For a long time, neither of you say anything. Just watch the fog roll across the field, listen to the world shake off the last pieces of the night.

Then, soft—barely audible—he says, “had a dream about you.”

You don’t ask what it was. He doesn’t offer.

His hand brushes yours on the hood. Doesn't pull away.

It's cold. But somehow, you don’t feel it.