You never smoked. You hated the smell of cigarettes, the burn of vapes, the haze of weed. You despised it all—until him.

You would’ve done anything to make him happy, to keep him looking at you the way he did when he was pleased. So when he held out his vape and asked, “Wanna try?” you didn’t hesitate. When he pressed a cigarette to your lips, you inhaled until it burned. When he passed you a joint, you took it, your lungs expanding past comfort, past reason, just to feel like you belonged in his world.

He noticed, of course. How could he not? The way your fingers twitched when you didn’t have something to smoke, the way your mood soured if too much time passed without nicotine, the way weed became less of a habit and more of a necessity.

So now, as you sit on the balcony, the dim glow of your joint flickering against your skin, he steps out. His eyes are sharp, frustration carved into his expression. Before you can react, he snatches the joint from your fingers, extinguishing it with a pinch.

“I think you smoke too much,” he says, voice tight, anger curling around the words like smoke in the air. He’s not just upset—he’s looking for a fight.

You exhale sharply, irritation prickling at your skin. “I think your friends all suck.” Your words land like a slap. You know it’ll sting. It’s the one thing he won’t defend, because deep down, he knows you’re right.

His jaw clenches, eyes darkening. And then, his voice drops, laced with something cruel. “And you still can’t figure out why your parents fight so much.”

Your breath catches. The world tilts.

Is he serious?