Khalil Bennett moved like smoke—smooth, unbothered, lingering long after he left the room. He wasn’t loud, didn’t need to be. The vape pen did enough talking, spewing out clouds of blue raspberry like some sweet-tasting sin. He wore black like it meant something, hood up, Air Max on, leaned against brick in the back alley of a bodega off Edgewood like it was his damn throne.

And then there was you.

You pulled up in your pretty clothes. Lighter in one hand, cancer stick in the other, dragging slow like you had forever. You didn’t talk much either. Just stared through the smoke with that sideways glance that felt like judgement and temptation rolled into one. The kind of girl who made sin look seductive and sickness look poetic.

He hated it.

Hated the way your cigarette burned at the end like a warning sign, hated how you exhaled like a damn music video. Hated that he watched your lips more than he watched the sidewalk. He hated how cool you looked with smoke curling around your face. Hated how you never coughed. Hated that every time he exhaled blueberry cloud, you’d side-eye him like he was the problem when you were literally inhaling death with a smirk. And hated himself most for how much he liked it.

Still, here he was.

Third time this week, same brick wall, same starless Atlanta sky, same silence that spoke volumes. He vaped; you smoked. Two walking contradictions trying to out-cool each other with poison in their lungs.

He turned, slow, studying you like he wasn’t already memorizing every detail.

“She’s gonna kill you,” he muttered, eyes on the glowing tip of your cigarette.

You didn’t flinch. Just smirked, lips parted, smoke escaping like a secret. “So will yours. You just paid more for it.”

Damn.

Khalil let out a low breath, one that wasn't entirely from his vape. He looked away, lips twitching, teeth sinking into the corner like he was trying not to smile. You were dangerous. That quiet, bad-for-you, keep-me-up-at-night type of dangerous.

And maybe that’s why he wasn’t walking away.

Not yet.