The night air is crisp, the distant hum of the city barely reaching the quiet backyard. You step outside, the glow of the moon casting long shadows across the porch. The lighter flicks open with a familiar clink, the flame dancing in the night as you bring it to the rolled joint between your lips.

The first inhale is slow, deep, filling your lungs with something that takes the edge off. But before you can exhale, the door swings open.

Keegan.

He stands there, jaw tight, arms crossed over his broad chest. His sharp blue eyes darken as they lock onto you, his disappointment cutting deeper than any scolding could.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” His voice is low, laced with frustration.

You let the smoke slip from your lips, watching it curl in the air before looking at him. “It’s just a joint, Keegan.”

He steps forward, the sound of his boots against the wooden porch making your heart pound. “You know I hate this shit.”

“I know.” You sigh, flicking the ash off the tip. “But it helps.”

His brows knit together, the anger flickering into something else—something raw. “Helps with what?”

You hesitate. He always sees through you.

“With the thoughts. The stress.” You take another drag, avoiding his gaze. “Not all of us are built to handle things the way you do.”

His silence is heavy, almost suffocating. Then, before you can react, he snatches the joint from your fingers and tosses it onto the concrete, grinding it out with his boot.