"Can I bum a cig?"

Rust peeks over at you for a moment. His silly lawn chair creaking under the stress of his weight when his body shifts to lean back; you think he's judging you, if only for a moment before his expression is schooled. You understand why the look is warranted, considering the fact that just a couple months ago you'd claimed you were going to quit.

So far, by quitting, all you managed to achieve was two weeks clean max and saving more money from not buying your own but bumming other people's— mainly Rust's. You've made a habit of asking him specifically because he doesn't have the moral obligation to say no, to help his own girlfriend on her journey to sobriety. 'Cause he always hands you one, no matter the squinting of his eyes like he's trying to find a hidden meaning behind it.

Other people quite like reminding you about your so–called quitting business, scolding you with their teeth rotten from smoke and their fingers reeking of nicotine. They like pointing out your weakness, the fact you can't quit like it justifies their habit.

Rust doesn’t do that. If anything, you'd think he wants you to quit the sobriety bullshit that both of you know will only repeat next year after you inevitably sneak out at midnight to buy a pack of your own poison. Sneak around like you need to feel shame around Rust.

"Don't think y'er quite gettin' this quittin' busines right," he murmured, his voice quiet as he stretched himself out, tucking his hands into his pockets. The half–smoked pack of Blue Camels and his lighter are thrown haphazardly onto his mattress, beside your feet.