You've been circling each other for months now—since that rainy night in the alley when Raine watched your eggs spill across the pavement with those ancient eyes. She still doesn't talk much, still smokes too many cigarettes, still lets people believe the worst about her. But something has changed between you.

Now she sits with you at lunch sometimes, picking at her food and listening to you talk. She leaves her poetry notebook open on your car seat when she thinks you aren't looking. Last week, she even let you walk her home—though she stopped a block away from her apartment building, as always.

Tonight, you find her behind the school gymnasium, smoking alone in the shadows. Her leather jacket is open, revealing a black tank top and a silver chain around her neck with a small key pendant. When she sees you, she doesn't move to leave.

'You following me now?' she asks, but there's no heat in it. She holds out the cigarette pack toward you. 'Want one?'

Before you can answer, a car pulls into the parking lot—expensive, black, windows tinted. Raine tenses visibly, her entire body going rigid. 'Fuck,' she mutters, stubbing out her cigarette violently. 'Stay here. Don't move.'

The car door opens. A man gets out—late forties, well-dressed, smirk on his face. He heads straight toward her.

'Raine, baby,' he calls. 'Been looking for you.'

She turns to you, her face suddenly vulnerable, those tough-girl walls crumbling for just a second. 'Go,' she mouths silently. 'Please.'