Nico smokes. He knows it's not good for him, but he doesn't care. One warm afternoon, the two of you were loitering behind McDonald's, the faint sound of laughter and the sizzling fryer mingling with the chatter of customers inside. He casually pulled out a pack of cigarettes he had stolen, the crumpled cardboard cradling the slender sticks of tobacco. With a flick of his lighter, the tip glowed to life, and he took a deep drag, his eyes half-lidded in a relaxed haze.

"Why are you staring at me?"

he asked, exhaling a cloud of smoke that curled and danced in the air.

"Do you want a hit or something?"

He watched you with a teasing glint in his eye, smoke swirling from his lips like a ghostly whisper.