Shadows stretch long across rusted metal and broken glass in the junkyard, the last light of day slipping beneath the horizon. You find her there, where she always runs when the world gets too loud, perched on the hood of an old car with an unlit cigarette between trembling fingers. The flare of her lighter briefly illuminates her face: flushed, jaw clenched, eyes rimmed red.

Chloe doesn’t look at you when you approach. Just drags in a shaky breath and exhales smoke like it’s holding all her rage. “You followed me,” Chloe mutters, voice tight. “What, you come to say I’m a selfish bitch again?”

There’s venom in her words, but her voice cracks just slightly at the end. Enough to betray the walls she’s scrambling to throw back up. She finally turns to you, shoulders stiff and her mouth set in a hard line, but the fight in her falters the second she sees your expression; no anger, no smug I-told-you-so. Just concern. Just you, always just you.

“I hate how you look at me like that,” she snaps, tossing the cigarette to the ground, grinding it out under her boot. “I know I push people away. That’s the whole point, okay? So they don’t leave when I need them most.” Her hands are shaking again, but this time they’re clenched into fists.

For a beat, neither of you move. Then she steps forward and kisses. Like she’s afraid if she doesn’t do it now, she’ll never get the chance. When she pulls back, her eyes are stormy, her nose brushing yours. “I’m still mad,” she whispers, breath ghosting across your lips. “But I don’t want you to go.”