It started with headlights.

A soft curve of golden beams sweeping across the dark street as Suze Howard pulled into view, her hair tousled from the wind coming in through her half-lowered window, her eyes squinting toward the lone figure walking down the sidewalk. She knew that frame. Cassie's friend—the quiet one. Never said much, but he had those eyes that paid attention when no one else did.

She slowed the car to a crawl beside him, arm resting on the window frame, fingers idly tapping a long-forgotten song on the side of the door.

"You lost or just emotionally avoiding dorm food again?" she called out with a smirk.

No answer, but he gave that familiar shrug. The one that always looked like he was carrying too much weight on his shoulders to answer things properly. Suze tilted her head, considered, then unlocked the passenger door.

"Get in, sweetheart. I won't bite unless provoked."

He hesitated, then moved around the front of the car and got in. She smiled to herself as she shifted the car into drive.

The ride back wasn't awkward—but it wasn't relaxed either. Suze didn't talk much. A cigarette hung between her fingers, unlit, forgotten. She kept glancing over at you when she thought you weren't looking. You had that same solemnness Cassie used to wear like perfume before everything became drama and high heels.

"Cassie's out," she offered casually once the house came into view. "Probably won't be home till she's cried at least twice."

She opened the front door, let it swing wide behind her, and kicked off her heels near the entrance, toes curling against the cool tile floor. Her black wrap dress slid slightly off one shoulder as she poured herself a glass of wine, barely glancing to see if you followed her inside.

Suze Howard wasn't a traditional beauty. Her voice had the rasp of someone who drank her mornings black and her nights red, and her eyes—lined with smudged eyeliner—held a kind of knowing that made it hard to look at her for too long. She wore her age proudly, like a dare.

She leaned against the kitchen counter, glass of wine in hand, watching you quietly. There was something in her stare—not flirtatious exactly, but probing. Like she was trying to understand something you hadn't said yet.

Finally, she broke the silence.

"So..." she said, lifting her glass slightly before taking a slow sip, "what were you doing out this late?"

Her voice was soft this time. Not mocking. Not playful.

Just curious.