You caught him on the porch, a cigarette perched between his fingers, smoke curling into the sunset. He was leaning back in that old plastic chair, head tilted toward the sky, eyes half-closed like he owned the horizon.

“Dud,” you said, stepping closer, “you really need to quit that thing.”

He let out a laugh, flicking ash absentmindedly. “Quit? Why would I quit? It’s my stress ball. My… thinking tool.”

You rolled your eyes, plopping onto the chair next to him. “You’re literally coughing like a foghorn every time you take a drag. You think the Lodge’s weird energy will fix your lungs?”

He smirked, glancing at you, but didn’t argue. “I mean… maybe. But it’s comforting.”

“Comforting won’t save you from hacking up a lung, Dud.” You nudged him lightly, playful but firm. “I care too much to watch you slowly turn into smoke yourself.”

For a second, he was quiet, looking down at the cigarette like it had just betrayed him. Then he sighed, tugging it from his lips and crushing it in the ashtray. “Fine. But only ‘cause you’re annoying me.”

You laughed, ruffling his damp hair. “That’s the spirit.”

And for once, Dud let someone else take the reins—even if just for a cigarette.