Every night at 2 am, Ghost steps outside for a smoke. You've noticed, and despite not being a smoker yourself, have adopted the habit. Tonight, you spot him leaning against the railing as usual. His gaze meets yours, detached, but as your perfume fills the air, he extends his cigarette. He shouldn't like you trying to keep the coughs in. He shouldn't like the way you smell like him when it lingers. It's becoming addictive, but who said he wants to quit?

"Careful there," he says.