“Want a smoke?”

He sidled up next to you, lean as a panther and twice as predatory. There was a sort of graceful, languid quality to him that screamed effortlessness— as if he couldn’t be bothered. The way his eyes were always perpetually slanted in annoyance or indifference only emphasised your impression of him: bad.

The stereotypical bad boy, piercings leather jackets, and you were willing to bet he drove a motorbike, too.

He flashed you a crooked smirk as he extended the cigarette.