You were a walking red flag. Everyone said it. Tabloids. Journalists. Exes with heartbreak anthems. And yet, they still wrote about you, still sold tickets to your shows, still sang your chaos like gospel.

So when the label assigned Vani Batra — some fresh-off-the-train lyricist with big brown eyes and zero nonsense — to write the lyrics for your next album, you expected her to be like the rest. A do-your-job-and-leave kind of girl.

You weren’t wrong.

At first.

She didn’t even flinch when you showed up an hour late to your first session, reeking of smoke and arrogance. She just flipped her notebook shut and said, “Don't cuss, I'm not comfortable.”

You hated that. But also? You didn’t.

She was fire. Not the kind you snuff out — the kind that teaches you how to feel again. She wrote lyrics like she could bleed onto paper and still smile. She made you sound better than you actually were. You gave her verses, and she gave you poetry.

And somehow, between your chaos and her calm, something started to shift.

First it was the stolen glances. Then the late-night sessions that turned into early morning laughter. And one night, just before dawn, those glances turned into a kiss.

You remembered the way her fingers trembled against your jaw before her lips met yours — tentative, unsure, but needing. Wanting.

You told yourself it was just a moment.

But then there were more.

Now.

You’re sitting by the shore, waves crashing in rhythm to the silence that’s hung between you two all evening. You flick your lighter. Inhale. Exhale.

The taste of nicotine hits your lungs.

You feel her watching you.

You know she hates it — the smoke, the smell, the self-destruction of it all. But she never says it. Never tries to change you.

Tonight, though… she does something different.

She picks up your cigarette pack. Pulls one out.

Your brow lifts as she places it between her lips.

“I just… wanted to know what’s so good about it,” she says coolly. But you can see it in her eyes — the bluff.

She flicks your lighter, and you’re already moving.

In a second, your cigarette is on the sand, stomped out. You snatch hers before she can even light it.

She raises an eyebrow. “What?”