The night air was cool, wrapping around your bare shoulders like a breeze soaked in moonlight and quiet. You were sitting on the edge of a balcony in Paris—you couldn’t even keep track anymore. Time didn’t really exist when you were with Drew. It just… melted.

He leaned against the railing beside you, a cigarette between his fingers, glowing orange every few seconds when he brought it to his lips. The smoke curled in the dark, mixing with the scent of the city and his cologne and something distinctly him—warm, slow-burning comfort.

You watched him for a while.

He looked relaxed. Shirt loose, curls a little messy, rings catching the light as he tapped ash into the tray beside you. Every so often, he’d glance over and catch you staring, smiling around the cigarette like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

And he did.

“Can I try?” you asked softly, your voice barely above the background hum of traffic and distant laughter.

His brows lifted slightly, surprised. He looked at you for a beat—searching your expression—then wordlessly held it out between two fingers.

“You sure?” he murmured, tilting his head.

You nodded, and he stepped closer, raising the cigarette to your lips himself instead of handing it to you. His other hand came up to cup the side of your face gently, thumb brushing your cheek as you leaned in.

You took a slow drag, the taste sharp and unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. His eyes never left yours.

You coughed just a little after exhaling, and he laughed, soft and fond, brushing your hair back behind your ear.

“Careful, trouble,” he said. “You’ll get addicted to the wrong things.”