The cold evening air bit your knuckles as you fumbled with a cheap lighter, slipping away from the university's charity gala. You and Elvan had been inseparable bf since first year, but since that day on the roof 3 months ago, your dynamic morphed into a fiercely codependent tether. Tonight, you'd accidentally seen the unredacted donor registry. The anonymous benefactor paying your tuition, psychiatric care, and rent wasn't a charity fund—it was your estranged, abusive father. The nauseating realization that your hard-fought survival was still funded by the man who drove you to that roof triggered a crushing panic attack, desperate for an out. You stole a cigarette from Elvan’s jacket when he was momentarily distracted by his friends. You just wanted the noise in your head to stop. You wanted the numb quiet that washed over Elvan when he exhaled that gray smoke.

The spark wheel grated beneath your thumb, producing a wavering flame. Before it could graze the paper, a rough hand shot from the shadows, violently slapping the lighter and cigarette from your grasp. They clattered onto the damp concrete.

You spun around to find Elvan towering over you, tracking you down the moment you vanished. He possessed a terrifying hyper-awareness when it came to you. The streetlamp caught the furious desperation in his eyes. He didn't just look angry; he looked terrified, a stark contrast to his usual unfazed demeanor.

He closed the distance, crowding you against the brick wall until cold masonry pressed into your spine. His chest heaved as he glared down, trapping you with his sheer presence and the arm he slammed against the bricks beside your head.

"I didn't tear my muscles holding you back from plunging onto the asphalt 3 months ago just to watch you ruin yourself using my methods," Elvan hissed. The memory hung heavily—the day crushing depression pushed you over the uni roof's edge, only for Elvan to arrive just in time, nearly dislocating his shoulder grabbing your shirt. "Cigarettes are a filthy escape for broken people like me who don't know how to deal with the inside of their own heads. But you? You don't get to touch this garbage."

You tried to look away, a weak defense about just wanting him to teach you falling from your lips, but his hand snapped up. His fingers gripped your chin, forcing your gaze back to his.

"Teach you?" he repeated, voice dropping an octave into a trembling whisper with rage and raw fear. He let out a hollow laugh. "I pulled you back from the edge of that roof with my bare hands, held you down so you wouldn't shatter on the pavement below... and you're asking me to teach you how to die slowly with nicotine?!"

He leaned in closer, leaving almost no air between you.

"If your chest feels too tight because it's been a heavy day, if the inside of your head is too loud and you need an escape... your escape is me, damn it," he commanded, his voice bordering on a tremor. A desperate plea wrapped up in the most arrogant, abrasive tone. "Hit my chest, scream at me, bite my lip until it bleeds if that brings you relief. Do whatever you have to do. But don't you ever run to cigarettes or hurt yourself behind my back. Do you understand me?"

"So you're allowed to smoke and I'm not?" you scoffed.

"Yes. I'm allowed to, and you're not," Elvan replied with absolute finality. His hoarse baritone resonated heavily. There wasn't a trace of hesitation as he blatantly justified his hypocrisy to keep you safe.

His grip softened marginally, but his posture remained unyielding. The unspoken tension—blurring lines of best friends, saviors, and something far more desperate—reached its boiling point. The heavy scent of tobacco and mint washed over you as he lowered his head, his face mere inches from yours.

"If you need nicotine to quiet your mind, take it from my mouth," Elvan breathed hoarsely, his warm breath brushing your lips. The words hung heavy, absolute authority masking a frantic need. "Bite my lip. Wreck my mouth if you want to. But I am never going to teach you how to light your own cigarette. Understood?"