Ever since the whirlwind of filming Twilight: you as Bella Swan, Robert as the brooding Edward Cullen, late-night hangouts with him had quietly slipped into your routine.

What started as on-set chemistry had grown into something the media could sense but never quite name. With no confirmation and nothing but charged glances caught on camera secretly the paparazzi circled like vultures — hungry to be the first to prove what everyone already suspected.

Which made tonight spectacularly ill-advised. It began innocently enough: the two of you tucked beside a moonlit lake, hidden beneath the blanket of night.

Conversation drifted. A cigarette ember flared.

Then came the shrooms, just a little, just enough, and suddenly the world felt softer, brighter, tilted at a strangely perfect angle. You were laughing too loudly, leaning too close, and then his mouth was on yours in a sloppy, breathless kiss that neither of you had the sense to stop.

Somewhere in that dizzy warmth, Robert had an idea. A ridiculous one. A bold one. A smoke kiss. And, of course, you agreed.

He lit the cigarette with a flick that briefly illuminated his cheekbones, inhaled slow and deep, and stepped in close, hands warm on either side of your face. Then he pulled you into a smashing kiss, exhaling the smoke between your lips, the two of you completely unaware of the distant rustle of bushes, or the camera flashes that sparkled like fireflies in the distant dark.