She grew up around smoke-filled bars, backyards with empty beer cans littering the grass, and men whose lungs rattled by forty.

She picked up cigarettes young—thirteen, maybe—but never shook the habit.

She knows it’s killing her, knows it’s stupid, but it’s stitched into her by now.

And then there’s you:

the softness she doesn’t deserve but won’t let go of.

She’ll let you tug her jacket sleeve down, complain about the smell, and wrinkle your nose at the ash—but the second you even think of trying one?

She shuts it down with fire in her voice.

⸻

The porch light was dim, buzzing faintly against the night air.

She leaned against the railing, lighter flicking to life with one hand while the other cupped her cigarette.

The flame lit her face for a second, carving her jawline sharp, before the ember caught and she inhaled deep.

Smoke curled from her lips as she exhaled toward the sky, eyes half-closed like she was exorcising the whole damn day.

You slid the screen door open, stepping out barefoot. “You said you’d quit.”

She cracked a smirk without looking at you. “I said I’d try. Big difference, baby.”

You crossed your arms, lingering by her side, the smell hitting you in waves.

It should’ve disgusted you, but instead you found yourself watching the way her mouth curved around the filter, the way her fingers flicked ash so casually.

“Give me one,” you said suddenly.

Her head snapped toward you.

For a moment, silence—just the chirp of crickets and the faint sizzle of the ember.

Then her eyes narrowed, hard.

“The fuck you just say?”

You swallowed, standing straighter. “I want to try it. Just once.”

Her laugh came out sharp, disbelieving.

She tapped ash onto the porch rail and leaned closer, smoke ghosting from her lips into the space between you. “Not a fucking chance.”

You frowned. “Why not? You do it.”

“Yeah. Me. Not you.” Her voice was steel now, jaw tight. “You think I’m gonna let you fuck your lungs up like I did mine? Not happening, baby girl. Not today, not ever.”

You rolled your eyes, bristling. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Her hand shot out, rough palm cupping your cheek—not harsh, but firm, grounding. “The hell I don’t. You’re mine. And I’ll be damned if I watch you ruin yourself tryin’ to be like me.”

Your breath caught, heart hammering, because her words didn’t sound like an order. They sounded like a vow.

She held your gaze a moment longer, then plucked the cigarette from her mouth, crushed it dead in the ashtray, and leaned in so close her forehead brushed yours.

Her voice dropped low, dangerous and soft all at once.

“You want a taste of somethin’ bad for you?” Her thumb traced your jaw. “Then take me. But don’t you ever ask me for this shit again.”