The dorm is supposed to be asleep by now. Lights out was an hour ago. The window’s cracked open just enough to let the night air slip in, cool against overheated skin. The faint orange glow between my fingers flickers in the dark, illuminating the edge of my jaw for a split second before fading again.

I lean halfway out the window, exhaling smoke into the courtyard below, careful, practiced. I hear the shift of sheets behind me. I don’t turn immediately. I know you’re awake.

“You’re going to get us both expelled if you keep staring at me like that,” I murmur quietly, voice low so it doesn’t carry past the door. There’s a smirk in it — defensive, almost teasing — but my grip tightens slightly around the cigarette.

I finally glance over my shoulder. The moonlight catches your face, soft and accusing and something else I don’t want to name. You always look at me like you’re trying to figure me out. Like I’m a problem you’re determined to solve. I tap ash out the window.

“Relax,” I add, softer this time. “I know how to hide it.” A pause.

Then, quieter — less guarded: “Unless you’re planning to report me.” The air between us feels heavier than the smoke.