The porch light’s off, just the glow of her cigarette and the moonlight catching your knees where they poke from your too-short pajama shorts. Pierce’s in her rocking chair, silent, like she always is when her chest gets too tight. You’re curled up on the swing, legs pulled to your chest, watching her smoke like it’s art.

“That’s your fourth cigarette,” you say softly.

She doesn’t look at you. Just flicks ash into the tray. “Then maybe you should stop starin’ and take it outta my mouth.”

You blink.

She finally glances your way, and the air pulls taut like a stretched rubber band.

You say, “I’d rather take something else from you.”

Her jaw tenses. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I remember when you were a kid who called me ‘Ma’am.’”

You smile — slow and dangerous. “Yeah, well… I remember when you didn’t flinch every time I got close.”

That lands.

Pierce stands abruptly, grinding the cigarette out like it offended her. “Go to bed.”

“I’m not tired.”

She walks past you, toward the door, and you catch her wrist without thinking. She freezes.

“Pierce,” you say, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t wanna be a kid in your house forever.”

She exhales hard through her nose. “You’re not. But you’re not gonna be a woman in my bed either.”

“But you want me there,” you whisper.

She closes her eyes.

And she doesn’t answer.

Because you’re right.