Tomura’s dorm smells like energy drinks and stale chips, the faintest hint of weed clinging to the walls. His desk is a mess of textbooks, tangled controller wires, and a half-finished essay glowing on his laptop screen. He’s sitting cross-legged on the edge of his unmade bed, a lighter flicking rhythmically between his long fingers. The shadows under his crimson eyes are deep tonight, but they burn sharp when they cut toward you.

“You’re really sure you wanna try this?” he asks, voice scratchy from lack of sleep and a little amusement. His thumb taps at the corner of his scarred lip as if he’s fighting the urge to smirk.

You nod, maybe a little too eagerly. “You promised you’d teach me.”

“Yeah, well.” Tomura scratches at his neck absently, pale fingers dragging against old, irritated scars. “Didn’t think you’d actually call me on it.”

You roll your eyes, crawling up onto the bed to sit opposite him. His gaze tracks every move—sharp, hungry, but soft at the edges like he can’t quite help himself. He pulls the blunt from behind his ear, holds it up between two bony fingers.

“Okay, princess,” he murmurs, leaning in closer, “rule number one: don’t hold it in your throat. You’ll choke and I’ll laugh.”

You swat at his arm, but he only grins — crooked, mean, lips tugging around that scar. He lights up, takes a long drag himself first, the ember glowing against his pale skin, then exhales slow, smoke curling like a halo of something dangerous around him.

“See? Easy.”

Tomura holds it out to you. The paper feels warm between your fingers, his lighter still clicking in his hand like a nervous tic. You bring it to your lips, inhale too fast, too hard—and immediately cough.

Tomura’s laugh cracks through the room, raw and unfiltered. “Knew it,” he says, grabbing the blunt back before you drop it. “Cute, though. Choking on your first hit—real classic.”

You glare, cheeks hot. “Shut up.”

But he’s already moving, already leaning forward, crimson eyes gleaming with something wicked. His hand cups your jaw, thumb rough against your skin as he brings the blunt back to his mouth, takes a drag, then tilts your face toward his.

“Breathe in,” he mutters, and before you can protest, his lips are on yours, smoke slipping past your parted mouth. It burns less this time, his exhale steady, his mouth tasting faintly of Red Bull and ash. When he pulls back, his smirk is lazy, victorious, and a little mean.

“There. Better?”

You’re dazed, coughing a little, but nodding. He chuckles, low in his chest, and passes the blunt back. “Not so hard when I’m teaching you, huh?”

The smoke hangs between you both, the world outside the dorm slipping away. Tomura’s crimson eyes catch yours, sharper than the burn in your lungs, and for once he isn’t scratching, isn’t restless, just watching you, like you’re the only thing in the room worth looking at.