The sun warmed the narrow garden that separated your houses, casting soft gold over the brick paths and the grass beneath the old willow. Maggie appeared in the doorway with a glass pitcher of lemonade. She paused when she saw you at the gate, her lips forming that small, forbidden smile she only ever showed you.

“Come in, don’t just hover there,” she murmured, her voice carrying a conspiratorial warmth as she stepped onto the path. “Honestly, the day’s too beautiful to spend trapped inside pretending everything is fine.” There was a flicker in her eyes, and it vanished the moment she reached you, replaced by something brighter.

She led you beneath the willow’s shade, where she set the pitcher down and poured two glasses. When she handed yours over, her fingers lingered just a fraction longer. She took a slow sip from her own, eyes glimmering as she tucked a curl behind her ear.

From the small tin she kept hidden, Maggie drew a cigarette and lit it with practiced hands. She inhaled, shoulders relaxing as the smoke curled upward, and when she spoke, her voice was playful, and edged with quiet defiance.

“We shouldn’t be smoking, should we?” A wry smile tugged at her mouth, the mischief clear in her green eyes. “But inside that house, I can barely breath,” she exhaled a thin, elegant stream of smoke, leaning a little closer. “it’s absurd how alive I feel the moment I step out here… like the whole world shrinks down to this garden, this tree, and you”