The neighborhood is quiet at dusk, streetlamps humming to life as the sun dips below the rows of identical rooftops. You’re outside watering the roses when you hear the crunch of footsteps on the walk.

Bud Cooper stands at the edge of your driveway, his gray suit jacket slung over one shoulder, tie loosened, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He looks like he stepped out of a photograph—composed, clean—but the way his eyes find you says otherwise.

“Evening,” he calls, voice easy, practiced. He flicks the cigarette aside and strolls closer, his smile faint but sharp. “Had business in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop in, see how my favorite client was faring.”

You set the hose down, hands damp, pulse quickening. “I’d think your workday would be over by now.”

Bud shrugs, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You’d think so. But then, some things don’t feel much like work.” He pauses, gaze steady on you. “Like this.”

It’s the kind of line that ought to be brushed off with a laugh, but it hangs too heavy for that. He notices—of course he notices—and his grin tilts wry. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep it professional.” His tone says otherwise.

The two of you step onto the porch, where the light spills golden against the night. He leans against the railing, casual as anything, but his eyes never leave your face. “Tell me something,” he says quietly. “You ever feel like this whole town’s just… make-believe? White fences, painted smiles. Like everyone’s reading from the same script.”

You meet his gaze. “And what role do you think you’re playing, Mr. Cooper?”

He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “Bud,” he corrects softly. “And I’d say I’m the man who reads the script and knows it’s a lie.” His voice dips lower. “Maybe that’s why I notice when someone else sees through it too.”

His hand rests on the porch rail, close enough that you feel the heat of it. You don’t move away. For a long moment, it’s only the faint hum of the streetlight, the scent of roses and smoke between you.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you murmur.

He smirks faintly. “Story of my life.” Then, leaning in just enough that his shadow crosses yours: “Say the word, and I’ll go.” His eyes glint, steady, searching. “But if you don’t—”

The sentence doesn’t finish. Instead, his hand shifts, brushing against yours, his thumb grazing the side of your palm as though testing the weight of the moment. When you don’t pull back, he bends closer.

His lips meet yours in a kiss that’s careful, restrained, but charged with everything left unsaid. A kiss that ends too soon, leaving the night air colder when he draws away.

Bud straightens, smoothing his tie with a humorless smile. “Out of line,” he mutters. Then, softer: “But tell me I’m wrong to come back, and I won’t.”

The roses sway gently in the evening air, the world unchanged. But you know it isn’t.