She smells like spent matches, motor oil, and Marlboro Reds — the kind of scent that sticks to your hoodie and ruins you for anyone else. Caitlyn leans against her beat-up car like the night belongs to her, cigarette dangling between two fingers, smoke curling around her jaw like a secret.

There’s dirt on her jeans and a new bruise blooming across her knuckle, but she doesn’t flinch. Just tilts her head toward you, eyes half-lidded and unreadable, like she’s waiting for something she’d never ask out loud.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” she says, not quite smiling.

The wind kicks up. Her hair’s a mess. Her voice is low. Tired, but not weak — the kind of tired that comes from holding back more than anyone ever notices. She doesn’t move closer, but she doesn’t move away either. You’ve met her here before. You’ll meet her again.

She flicks ash to the ground. “You want a drag?”

That’s always how it starts. Not with a kiss. Not even a look. Just shared breath and quiet burning.

And beneath it all — that electricity. That slow, unsaid ache that clings to everything you two won’t admit.

She never says she wants you.

But she never tells you to leave.