I take a small step toward him without thinking. The smoke drifts between us like a living thing, coiling and twisting over my skin in ghostly tendrils before fading into the pale, fragile light of dawn.
“Show me,” I say, not quite sure why. Maybe it’s curiosity, maybe something else. I have never cared about smoking, never felt the pull of it, but now, with him, it feels like something I need to try.
Like the act itself might tell me something about him that words cannot.
He moves closer, crossing the space between us in a single, unhurried step. The air shifts around me. His scent reaches me first, a blend of tobacco mixed with the cold metallic bite of his jacket zipper. Beneath that lies something warmer, something that reminds me of musk and the faint hum of static in the air. The combination settles over me, and my pulse falters for a moment, thrown off its rhythm.
The crisp mountain air gives way to his scent, rich and intoxicating enough to drown out everything else, and my breath catches, held hostage by his nearness. I force myself to blink, to tilt my head just enough to break the spell, trying to steady the rush beneath my skin and sweep the gathering haze from my thoughts.
Dante slips a hand into his pocket for another cigarette, but I move before he can. My arm lifts, my fingers grazing his knuckles as I reach for the one already resting between his lips.His eyes shift, a quick flicker of confusion and curiosity touched by something darker, yet he does nothing to stop me.
I take the cigarette from his mouth and raise it to my own, keeping my eyes on his the entire time, echoing the gesture he made only moments earlier and letting the silence stretch between us like a held breath.
“Inhale,” he says softly, his voice dropping to a low timbre that carries something I cannot name. “Slowly.”
The command does something to me, gathering everything inside into a tight knot and forcing heat to bloom low in my stomach, gliding outward in a rush that feels almost electric. I follow his instruction, lowering my lashes as I draw in a breath, the first drag striking through my chest with a sharp, unfamiliar intensity.
“Good,” he murmurs.
That’s when it hits me—the menthol burn arriving with more force than I expected. It catches at the back of my throat, raw and biting, then drags itself downward until the heat settles deep in my chest like a small, unwelcome fire. The taste turns bitter and acrid, almost metallic on my tongue. I flinch before I can stop myself, my eyes squeezing shut as the sting spreads and a slow ache unfurls through my stomach.
“Slow. Don’t rush it.” His voice moves through me in a way that feels almost physical, like a touch I cannot quite place. It spreads through my mind, breaking into a thousand fragments of warmth and sound that settle beneath my skin.
When he speaks again, his tone has softened, the edges gentler, as if he is offering something rather than guiding me. “There you go,” he says, and the words feel less like instruction and more like permission, quiet and intimate in the cold morning air.
I shift slightly, my body humming with too much sensation—the cold air, the burn in my chest, the dizzy pulse in my veins. Ibreathe in again, then out, watching the smoke spill from my lips and rise between us. It curls in thin ribbons, twisting around our faces, blurring the world to ash and amber.
When I finally open my eyes, the sun catches him.
Golden light cuts through the haze, scattering across his skin and catching in his hair. The smoke moves around him like something alive, and for a heartbeat, he doesn’t look real at all—just a figure carved from light and shadow, standing still while the world burns softly around us.
One step closer, and we’ll touch. Just one. I can already see it—his hand sliding to my chin, my tongue nudging the cigarette from my lips, its ember dying as his mouth claims mine in that rough, unspoken promise I’ve been imagining.
But the vision fractures like glass when, instead of moving closer, Dante reaches back and takes the cigarette from between my lips. His fingers brush my chin on the way out, a light, unhurried touch that sends a subtle spark through my skin. He brings the cigarette back to his mouth, unfazed by the faint smear of my pink gloss on the filter. He draws in a long breath, eyes drifting shut as he inhales, lashes trembling as though he is wrestling with something deeper than smoke, something drawn from a place he does not dare name.
I take a slow step back, waiting to see if he’ll follow. He doesn’t. He stays wrapped in his cloud, a figure half-consumed by haze and light, watching me through the thinning curls of smoke.
The strike of rejection is cold and quick, like ice in my gut, splintering outward. My chest tightens, heavier than the first drag I took. I watch him finish the cigarette in silence until he drops it and crushes the glowing ember under his boot.
The world seems to tilt back to its usual rhythm, heavy and dull as I stand here, so close yet so far away, the flicker of pride inside me flashing to life.
I know he feels the same way. He just enjoys the push and pull. A part of me wants to say fuck it and kiss him myself.
But before the thought can fully crystallize, the sound of an engine tears through the stillness. A van barrels up the narrow mountain road, too fast to reach us in time. The brakes screech, fuel slicing through the air as it jerks to a stop just a few meters away. Whatever fragile, complicated thing hung between us dissolves instantly.
The door slams open, metal striking metal. A man steps out, his heavy boots crunching over frost as he approaches.
I recognize that gait, that posture, every line of tension in his body. Fury ignites behind my ribs, a white-hot flare that sears through me, consuming every trace of the soft warmth Dante left in its wake.
He stops in front of us, tilting his head with a sneer meant to intimidate, but it only grates.
“What are you supposed to be?” he spits. “Bert and Ernie lost on a mission?” He narrows his gaze, sizing us up the way someone judges a joke.
My lips twitch in barely contained rage as we remain silent.
His eyes flick between us, roving like a bored guard taking inventory. Dante stands rigid in the plaid fleece we found him—practical, pilled at the collar—while I wear the same pattern in a harsher palette: reds and burnt-orange that catch the light and make the cold look warmer. Our pants match in tone, an accidental uniform against the mountain’s white.
Dante truly predicted it. On our last shopping spree, he picked out clothes that are perfect for this exact mission.
