You hated him.

Cassian Rook. The walking ego in a leather jacket. All sharp smirks, devil-may-care attitude, and that ever-present cigarette dangling from his fingers like it was part of his personality.

He got under your skin from day one.

Always late. Always loud. Always challenging every word you said in class or meetings.

But that day?

That day, you snapped.

“You know,” you muttered, waving smoke away as he leaned against the brick wall outside the building, “you’d be almost kissable if you didn’t smell like an ashtray.”

His brows rose slowly, the smirk forming like a storm behind his lips. “Almost?”

“Not that I’d ever kiss you,” you added quickly, turning away.

“Sure,” he called behind you, “but you said almost.”

You didn’t think much of it.

Until the next day.

No cigarette.

No smoke.

No lighter clicking.

Just Cassian, slouched in his usual spot—looking bored, agitated, and… chewing gum?

Your brows furrowed. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” he muttered.

You narrowed your eyes. “Where’s your cancer stick?”

He didn’t look at you. “Quit.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I quit,” he repeated. “Cold turkey.”

“…Why?”

He met your gaze then—eyes darker, stormier than usual.

“You said you wouldn’t kiss a smoker.”

You forgot how to breathe.

Silence fell heavy between you. Your heart? A freaking drumline.

“You’re insane,” you whispered, half a laugh escaping.

“Maybe,” he said, stepping closer, voice dropping. “But I want that almost off the table.”

Your back hit the wall. He caged you in with one hand beside your head, the scent of smoke gone—replaced with mint, and something so him it made your knees go weak.

“Still wouldn’t kiss me?” he asked low, eyes flicking to your lips.

Your breath hitched.

He didn’t wait.

He leaned in, brushing his lips so close they ghosted yours without touching.

“Say it,” he murmured. “Say I’m still not kissable.”