You flick the lighter one last time, the smoke curling up slow as you lean back against the cracked wall. It’s a quiet moment, just you and the high—but then a shadow falls over you.

Spooky’s standing there, arms crossed, eyes sharp and heavy with that thick accent you know too well.

“You really think I don’t see that?” His voice is low, but there’s something biting in it.

You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool. “It’s just weed, Spooky. Chill.”

He scoffs, stepping closer. “You’re still my kid, no matter how much you act like you’re not.”

That hits a nerve. You glare back, heat rising in your chest. “I’m not a kid.”

He shakes his head, smirk twitching at the corner of his lips like he’s amused and frustrated all at once. “Maybe not to you. But to me? You’re still the one I gotta watch.”

You want to tell him you don’t need watching. Instead, you just keep smoking, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.