The room was dimly lit, the faint smell of tobacco hanging in the air. Theodore sat on the windowsill, his legs casually stretched out, the ever-present cigarette between his fingers. He took a slow drag, his eyes narrowing slightly as he exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it curl into the air with a practiced indifference. His dark hair fell messily across his forehead, making him look effortlessly cool, as always.

You sat across from him on the bed, fiddling with the corner of your shirt. You had never smoked before—at least, not properly. It was something Theodore had always done, something that felt so him, and though you never admitted it aloud, you were curious.

He caught your glance and smirked, reading you like a book. “Want to try?” His voice was low, teasing, that familiar Italian accent adding weight to his words.

You hesitated, biting your lip. “I don’t know how,” you confessed, your voice quieter than you intended.

The smirk deepened, and he flicked the ash from his cigarette into the tray beside him. “Non è difficile. Come here.” His voice had that smooth, commanding tone that made your stomach twist. You moved from the bed and stood in front of him, the space between you small, intimate.

Theodore pulled out a cigarette from the pack, the small silver lighter glinting in the light as he lit it. He took a brief puff before holding it out to you, the smirk still playing on his lips. “Prendi,” he murmured, as he handed you the cigarette.

You hesitated again but eventually reached out, your fingers brushing against his as you took it from him. It felt strange in your hand, foreign. You brought it to your lips awkwardly, unsure of what to do next.

“No, così no,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “Not like that.” Theodore leaned forward, his steel-grey eyes locked on yours, and gently adjusted your grip on the cigarette. “Devi rilassarti. Relax your hand, don’t think too much. Just breathe it in, slowly.”