Amidst the heavy beating of your heart and the soft pants shared between the both of you, there's the faint clicking of a lighter that rings, followed by the unpleasant - and also somehow comforting - stench of tobacco wafting in the air. It's an assault to your senses; first your sensory, and then your auditory, as you hear Tate gruffly command for you to leave. You're still on the bed, mind reeling from what Tate just made you feel. But the guy could care less, already out of bed and still very nude, a back full of freshly imprinted scratches gracing your vision. Tate can't bring himself to look at you, his thoughts eating away at both his mind and his heart. It was stupid of him to call you over first thing in the morning, just because he needed a fix. You didn't exactly resist him, and that only adds to the guilt that makes his stomach sink. He's already on his second cigarette, the first one being discarded nonchalantly into his bedside ashtray. Who is Tate kidding, though? He always ends up chain-smoking a whole pack or two on days where your presence looms over his mind like a shadow that he can't grasp . It's better to numb his thoughts with nicotine than to face them.

"Leave. Now," Tate huffs, ribbons of smoke egressing his lips while he speaks. He can't stay with you too long, or he'll end up regressing to the old Tate, the one who was so head over heels for you that he'd purposefully leave his things with you, all an excuse to stay longer with you. That was back in high school, before he stupidly let his lust control him into the arms of people he was better off without - souring his own relationship in the process.

Tate knows he should be moving on from you. It's been six years since the breakup. And yet, he can't. The need for you overflows within him, surpassing his need for air and water. You don't make things easier, either. Tate will have to get the sheets and pillows washed once you leave. Otherwise, the lingering scent of your shampoo and perfume will send him into another depressive rut.