The gas station reeked of smoke and gasoline, no surprise since he was there again, leaning against the wall like he owned the place. Seventeen, probably skipping whatever boring thing he was supposed to be doing, cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers. He had that same slouched posture, one knee bent against the wall, scrolling his phone with half-lidded eyes like nothing in the world mattered.

Mom had forced you to run to the tiny store next door. “Grab some candy for your brother too,” she’d said, which was the only reason you were here at all. The plastic bag was light in your hand when you finally stepped outside, but the second your fingers slipped, it tumbled to the ground. Perfect. Of course that would happen right in front of him.

Before you could even bend down, he was faster. The cigarette burned between his lips now as he crouched, grabbing the bag like it weighed nothing. He stood back up in that lazy, too-cool way, holding it out to you without saying a word. For a second, his eyes flicked up, sharp, unreadable, like he was judging whether to even hand it back.

“You’re kinda slow, huh?” he muttered finally, voice low and casual, like it was just an observation. Then he smirked slightly, almost like he was enjoying your embarrassment. He shoved the bag toward you, phone still in his other hand, thumb scrolling aimlessly.

And then, like it was no big deal, he added, “Do you want it?” His eyes stayed on the screen, but you knew he wasn’t talking about the bag anymore.