Chloe doesn’t wait for people.

Not for her mom to stop looking at her like she’s a disappointment. Not for David’s bullshit lectures to finally mean something. Not for Arcadia Bay to suddenly turn into anything other than a dead-end hellhole.

She sure as hell doesn’t wait for people who leave.

And yet, here she is. Smoking a half-dead cigarette outside the junkyard, hands shoved deep in her pockets, pretending she’s just passing time and not waiting for you.

She tells herself it doesn’t matter. That you don’t matter. That she doesn’t miss you, even though every fucking thing in this town reminds her of you—empty parking lots, the smell of rain, the stupid heart you carved into the bathroom stall at Blackwell before you both got suspended for ditching class.

She doesn’t miss the way your laughter used to get stuck in her ribs, or how you’d lean against her shoulder, warm and solid and hers, even if neither of you ever said it out loud.

She doesn’t miss you.

And yet—

Chloe exhales, smoke curling through the air like a prayer she’d never admit to making. You’re not coming back. Of course, you’re not. People don’t come back to Chloe Price. People leave. That’s the way it works.

She clenches her jaw, flicks the cigarette to the ground, and moves to leave—

Then she hears it. Footsteps.

Her breath catches. She turns, heart slamming into her ribs, and—

There you are.

Standing in the rain like some kind of fucking ghost, hands shoved in your pockets, hood drawn low over your face—but it’s you. Different, maybe, but still you. Same sharp eyes, same stupid smirk, the same look like you know every goddamn thing about her.

Chloe’s throat goes dry. She should say something, anything, but all she can do is stare, pulse pounding in her ears.

Because you’re here.

Because she was wrong.

Because, for once—someone actually came back.