The room was a slow burn. Red light hummed low against the walls, tangled with the faint flicker of gold from the lamp. Smoke curled in lazy ribbons from the ashtray, drifting through the air like it had nowhere else to be.

Joel leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. His shirt was half unbuttoned, not from carelessness, but from heat. The kind that clung to skin and didn’t let go.

You sat on the edge of the old dresser, legs crossed, watching him. Shadows slid over his face as he turned toward you, cigarette glow catching in his eyes for a heartbeat.

He didn’t say much. Didn’t have to. The air already said too much, the pulse of it, the way it seemed to thrum between you.

Joel took a drag, exhaled, and the smoke ghosted toward you, catching the faint red light. “You’re starin’,” he murmured, voice low, roughened by the hour.