Imagine Book 2

Smoke Break- Jane Lane (Daria)

As requested by Antisuperstar! Fem Y/N

The dim orange glow of the city's streetlights spilled out onto the sidewalk, mingling with the silver streaks of the occasional passing car. Y/N leaned against the brick wall outside the restaurant, her chef's whites half-unbuttoned and her apron flung lazily over her shoulder. She exhaled a long stream of smoke, watching as it curled into the cool evening air, dissipating before it could reach the stars.

This was her time—the short reprieve from the frenzy of clattering pots, shouted orders, and the unrelenting heat of the kitchen. A cigarette in hand, a moment of stillness. Y/N lifted her booted foot, bracing it against the wall behind her, and took another drag.

"Y'know, all this brooding makes you look like a 1950s film noir detective."

The voice, smooth and teasing, jolted Y/N from her reverie. She looked up to see Jane Lane standing a few feet away, her signature red jacket wrapped around her shoulders, and her black boots scuffing softly against the pavement as she approached.

"Does it?" Y/N flicked ash onto the ground and smirked. "Guess I'm just missing the trench coat and tragic backstory."

Jane stopped in front of her, her dark eyes twinkling under the dim light. "I don't know, you're a chef. You've got burns, knife scars, and a natural air of mystery. I think you're halfway there."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Lane."

Jane laughed—a rich, melodic sound that Y/N always found herself leaning into. It was the kind of laugh that felt rare, like a treasure Jane only gave to those who earned it.

"So," Jane said, pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders and leaning against the wall beside Y/N, "another glamorous night on the culinary frontlines?"

Y/N gestured toward the restaurant door with her cigarette. "Glamorous is exactly the word I'd use. Nothing screams elegance like getting screamed at because someone's steak isn't medium rare enough."

Jane turned her head toward her friend, lips curving in amusement. "Sounds rough. Need me to throw eggs at anyone on your behalf?"

"Tempting," Y/N said, biting back a grin. "But I'd hate to waste good eggs."

There was a beat of silence, filled only by the muted hum of the city around them. A couple walked by, the woman talking animatedly while the man nodded along. Jane's eyes followed them for a moment before she leaned closer to Y/N, her elbow brushing against Y/N's arm.

"Don't look now," Jane murmured, "but I think those two just escaped from a Sears catalogue."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, glancing at the couple. The man wore a painfully beige sweater vest, and the woman's patterned skirt swirled around her like she was auditioning for a soap commercial. Y/N snorted. "You're not wrong. They probably have matching monogrammed towels at home."

Jane covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. "No, no—matching mugs. 'His' and 'Hers.' Or worse, those cheesy ones that say, 'I'm Hers' and 'I'm His.'"

Y/N grinned, stubbing her cigarette out on the wall and dropping the butt into the ashtray nearby. "They definitely rehearse their Instagram captions before posting. Hashtag Blessed."

The laughter spilled out of Jane freely now, her cheeks flushing a soft pink. "Stop, you're killing me," she said, swatting at Y/N's arm.

Y/N shrugged, her grin widening. "I'm just calling it like I see it."

They fell into a comfortable rhythm after that, watching people pass by and crafting elaborate, ridiculous backstories for each one. The businessman in the ill-fitting suit? A secret agent who only took the job to impress his childhood crush. The teenager in the oversized hoodie? A future fashion designer conducting a social experiment.