Shane Holland (3)

SOME RANDOM CAR PARK IN BALLYLAGGIN. 23:37 PM
the car park is dead quiet, the kind of empty that makes everything echo. shane’s parked under the one working light, engine off, warmth fading. you’re sitting on the hood, knees tucked up, trying to stop thinking about the argument you left behind.
he’s standing beside you, one foot up on the bumper, cigarette between his fingers. he hasn’t asked what happened—he never does. he just showed up when you texted, like always.
you glance at him. “give me a drag.”
“no,” he says immediately, without even looking at you.
you frown. “shane.”
he takes another slow pull, exhales, eyes fixed somewhere past the car park. “i said no.”
“i’ve had one before.”
“and?” he mutters. “you’re not havin’ one tonight.”
you drop your head back against the windshield with a groan. “you’re impossible.”
he huffs a quiet laugh—more air than sound. “you only want it ‘cause you’re wound up.”
“maybe.”
“then sit there and be wound up,” he says simply. “you’re not gettin’ my smoke.”
you look at him again, studying the set of his jaw, the way he refuses to meet your eyes. he’s not teasing. he’s just… not giving it to you. like it’s that simple.
you sigh. “you’re in a mood.”
“you came out cryin’ on your driveway,” he says, finally glancing at you. “‘course i’m in a mood.”
you swallow. the cigarette burns quietly between his fingers. he offers you nothing—not comfort, not a drag, not a distraction. just his presence.
and somehow, that’s enough.
he nudges your ankle lightly with his knuckle. “you’ll survive without poisoning your lungs for the night.”
you roll your eyes. “you’re dramatic.”
“you’re talkin’?” he mutters, lifting the cigarette again.
the smoke curls up into the cold air. the two of you sit there in silence—your heart slowly settling, his shoulder close enough to feel even when he doesn’t touch you.