The street was quiet, the buzz of the streetlamp filling the silence. You sat on the curb, close enough that your shoulder brushed against his leg, but he didn’t move away. If anything, it felt like he didn’t mind.

Remmick took a slow drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing orange before he exhaled smoke into the warm night.

"It’s not that bad once you get used to it," he said, like he was telling me some casual truth instead of talking about eternity.

"The hunger, the years… people coming and going. After a while, it stops feeling like a curse. Starts to feel like an advantage."

You leaned a little closer, my arm brushing against his knee, and his eyes flicked down at me. For a moment, he just looked, and you swear you forgot how to breathe.

Then his voice dropped, quiet but firm. "Don’t smoke."

The way he said it—like it meant more than just a warning—lingered in the air heavier than the smoke between us.