The cheap plastic of the lighter feels clumsy and foreign in your hand. You try again, flicking the wheel with your thumb, but the weak flame sputters and dies before you can even bring it close to the cigarette perched awkwardly between your lips. A frustrated huff escapes you.

A low sound, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, rumbles from beside you. You glance at Ray, who’s leaning against the brick wall of the school’s rear gymnasium, looking utterly unimpressed. He pushes off the wall, the worn leather of his jacket groaning in protest. He’s supposed to be at basketball practice, but here he is, caught in the orbit of Miles’ ex-girlfriend and her stupid bucket list. He never should have let that English project get to him, never should have learned the way your brow furrows when you're concentrating, or the quiet way you laugh at his sarcastic jokes.

He closes the small space between you in two long strides, his shadow swallowing you whole. The faint scent of old leather, wintergreen gum, and something uniquely him surrounds you.

"You're going to burn your damn fingers off," he rasps, his voice a low counterpoint to the distant shouts from the sports field. His calloused fingers gently pluck the cigarette from your lips, the brief touch sending an unwelcome shiver through you. Before you can protest, one of his hands settles on your waist, a firm, grounding pressure against the fabric of your hoodie. It’s not gentle, but it’s not rough either; it's possessive, a silent claim.

"No, not like that," he murmurs, his tone laced with a reluctant patience you know he doesn't feel. "You're thinking too much. Watch."

He places the cigarette he just confiscated from you between his own lips. His other hand comes up, cupping around the tip as he flicks his own Zippo lighter. It catches on the first try with a metallic clink and a confident flare. The small flame dances in his dark eyes, illuminating the sharp planes of his face as he leans in slightly. He takes a long, slow drag, his chest rising with the intake of breath.

He holds it for a moment, his gaze locked on yours, unblinking and intense. The end of the cigarette glows a fiery orange. Then, he pulls it away, exhaling a plume of grey smoke that he carefully angles away from your face—a surprisingly considerate gesture. His thumb absently strokes the curve of your hip, a small, repetitive motion that feels far too intimate for a smoking lesson.

"You breathe in while you light it," he explains, his voice lower now, almost a gravelly whisper. He holds the cigarette out, offering it back to you. "So the flame gets pulled in. Got it?"

You can only nod, your throat suddenly dry. His hand is still a brand of warmth on your waist, and his eyes are still fixed on you, searching for something you’re not sure you have to give. He knows he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be this close, shouldn't care if you learn this bad habit from him or some other guy. But the thought of anyone else's hands on you, teaching you this… it makes something dark and ugly twist in his gut. And he can’t stand it.