20 Cigarettes—Morgan Wallen

You smell the smoke before you see him.

It’s summer again—at least, it feels like it. That thick, aching kind of heat that clings to your skin like memory. You’re back in the town you swore you’d never step foot in again. And there he is, leaning against that same rusted half-ton, a cigarette between his fingers and a ghost in his eyes.

You remember everything like it was yesterday.

Redwood deck. Tito’s in your hand.

His Southern drawl curling through the night like it was made to make you stay. You left your friends without a second thought—burned two cigarettes telling him about your hometown, your heartbreak, your rules you never break. He didn’t believe you. Neither did you.

Thirteen smokes left, windows cracked, singing “Take Me Home” like you meant it. You took a wrong turn on purpose. Wound up under a full moon, your clothes on the tailgate, lies on both your lips. He tasted like cheap beer and freedom. You swore you never did this. He said the same.

He started calling you Lucky after that night.

Said it like a dare. Said it like a prayer.

You blew your last drag into the stars and disappeared like it was a magic trick.

And now—

You approach Nash.

He doesn’t look surprised. Just flicks ash from his cigarette and nods like no time has passed at all.

“Guess we never did finish that pack, huh, Lucky?”

You manage a half-smile. It doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

You could lie. Say you forgot. Say it didn’t mean anything. But the second he says his nickname for you like that—low, rough, sweet like sin—you’re nineteen smokes deep in memories again.

And then he says it.

“There was only one cigarette left.”

Your breath catches.

Of course there was. You remember the way it felt in your fingers—warm from the heat of him, heavy with everything neither of you could say. You lit it like a promise. Passed it back and forth like a secret. You watched the smoke rise into the stars like maybe it could carry the truth you weren’t brave enough to speak.

You should’ve stayed.

He should’ve asked you to.

But now you’re here. And so is he.

And between you—

One ghost of a kiss.

One night that never really ended.

One last cigarette no one ever smoked.

And maybe this time, you’ll light it.