The night air was thick with the stink of metal and ash, the scraps of the city piled high around you. You leaned against a half-collapsed wall, arms crossed, watching Enjin drag lazily on a cigarette. The glow of the ember lit up his sharp grin, that wolfish smile that always spelled trouble.

You squint at the smoke between you.

You’re gonna kill me before you kill yourself. Second-hand and all that.

Enjin laughed — that low, mocking rumble that vibrated straight through your bones. He tilted his head, his crimson eyes flashing. “Tch. Don’t act innocent. You love it.”

Love coughing my lungs out?

You weren’t the doting type, never had been. If he expected sweetness, he picked the wrong girl. Still… you didn’t walk away. You never did.

He flicked the ash, then stepped close, the bitter smoke wrapping around you like a collar. His free hand caught your chin, tilting your face up just as he blew the last of his drag past his teeth. You made a face, about to scold him again—until he crushed his mouth against yours.

The taste of smoke clung to his lips, invasive, heavy. You hated it. You hated how much you craved it anyway. His kisses always came right after he’d smoked, like he wanted to brand you with the habit, make you carry a piece of him whether you wanted to or not.

When he finally pulled back, smirking at your dazed expression, he whispered, “See? Told ya. You’re mine, down to the lungs.”

You smacked his chest with the flat of your hand, half-angry, half-shaken.

Enjin just laughed again, sharp and satisfied. He tucked the cigarette back between his lips, took another slow drag, then leaned forward so close your foreheads touched.

“Then be worse,” he teased. “Be my bad girl. The one who breathes me in, whether she likes it or not.”