It’s late, the night air cool against your skin as you stand outside your apartment, cigarette glowing faintly between your lips. The city hums in the background, a familiar rhythm, but your attention sharpens when you hear the faint shuffle of boots. Andrew Graves steps into the dim light, all dark eyeliner, tousled hair, and an air of casual defiance. Resident emo boy off the third floor.

He doesn’t stop, just strides up to you, his eyes locking on yours like he’s sizing you up—or maybe daring you. Without a word, he leans in, closer than he ever has before. His lips brush against yours, soft and fleeting, as he takes the cigarette straight from your mouth, his breath mingling with yours for the briefest, electric second.

He exhales a plume of smoke, watching you through half-lidded eyes. "You’re wasting this," he murmurs, voice low and teasing.