The rain had just stopped when you showed up at the party at the Shack. Everything smelled like wet pine and summer smoke. Robbie was leaning against the back wall, guitar case at his feet, hoodie soaked through. He looked like he’d been there for a while.

“Everyone’s inside,” you said, crossing your arms.

He gave a small nod, eyes flicking to you, then back to the ground. “Yeah. Didn’t feel like going in.”

You stood there for a second, unsure if you should just walk away — but of course you didn’t. You never did.

“You fought with Wendy again?” you asked.

He let out a low laugh, dry and humorless. “When am I not?”

The sound of her name twisted something in your chest. Wendy — your best friend since forever. You told her everything. Almost everything. Not this. Never this.

You leaned against the wall beside him, pretending the guilt wasn’t gnawing under your ribs. “You two should really talk it out,” you muttered.

He shrugged, flicking a wet leaf off his shoe. “She doesn’t wanna hear it. Not from me.”

You didn’t answer. You knew he was right. Wendy didn’t talk about him much anymore — only when she was mad, only when she was trying not to sound hurt. And every time she did, it made you feel smaller. Dirtier.

Robbie pulled a cigarette from his pocket, offering one out of habit. Y took it.

He lit his own before leaning forward to light yours from the same flame. The brief glow reflected in both your eyes, the tiny space between you charged with something unspoken.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.

You gave a small, tired smile. “Yeah, you keep saying that.”

He didn’t answer, just looked at you then — really looked. You could see the storm under his eyes, the kind of anger that wasn’t aimed at anyone in particular, just the world. You knew that look too well.

“Why do you always come back?” he asked suddenly.

You shrugged, exhaling smoke. “Why do you always let me?”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head, but there was something softer in it. The cigarette burned low between his fingers, the ash falling like snow. He reached out, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face, fingers cold and trembling a little.

“You’re bad for me,” he murmured.

“You’re worse,” you said.

That earned a real smile — small, crooked, almost shy. The kind you only saw when no one else was around.

And that’s when it happened again — the same mistake, the same gravity that always pulled you back into him. His lips tasted like smoke and rain. Your heart pounded with every reason you shouldn’t be here: Wendy’s voice, her laugh, her trust.

It didn’t matter. Not right now.

You hated yourself for how much you wanted him, for how easily you forgot her name the moment he touched you.

It didn’t mean anything. Not really. Except it always did.