Eugene thought he needed a saviour. As it turned out, all he needed was a half-crushed pack of Marlboro Reds and the burn of smoke coating his lungs like penance. The lighter clicked, flame catching in the hollow between his fingers, and he dragged deep until the silence felt less suffocating. Across from him, you were sprawled on his couch, a stranger’s playlist running wild on his Bluetooth speaker. The bass rattled the glass of his whiskey, some song he couldn’t name but knew you’d hum along to anyway. He watched you from the corner of his eye, watched how you reached for the butt he’d just pressed into the ashtray. You lifted it like a dare, lips closing where his had been, inhaling what he’d left behind. His chest tightened, irrational jealousy clawing through him. Casual, you’d say. Casual, as though that small theft wasn’t already too intimate, too ruinous.

It was unbearable to be your “casual.” Unbearable when his shirts smelled of your shampoo, when his skin still wore faint nail marks from nights you’d climbed into his lap like you belonged there. You’d kissed him until he forgot his own name, let him drag sighs from your throat like you were his, and yet—by morning—you’d smile, say nothing, and vanish before the sun claimed either of you.

You were going to kill him, and he was going to let you. Because better your smoke in his lungs, your lipstick staining his mouth, than this life of almosts and never-enoughs. This wasn’t meant to be limbo. He’d asked you for something more once—something steady, something that didn’t taste like ash. You laughed. Said you weren’t built for forever. Still, you came back. Still, you let him hold you against the headboard, let him map your skin with bruises and devotion, let him lose himself in the heat of your mouth only to remind him in the morning that it meant nothing.

It had been good. Then it got too good. And when he finally slipped, he slipped violently, without armour. Now, he loved you. He was almost certain you loved the cigarette between your lips more than him.

"Do you ever smoke anything that isn’t Marlboro?" His own voice betrayed him, low and rough, more plea than joke. Eugene swallowed hard, letting the bitter burn of whiskey blur the sharp edges of his thoughts. He’d settle for this—your couch, your nights, your hands that never stayed long enough. He’d settle for being your backburner, because at least that meant he still got to burn.