He's leaning against the glass of the balcony door. It's cold against his back, even though the air outside is warm. The noise from the street below reminds him that there is a world down there. A whole street filled with people. A whole street filled with lifes, hundreds, thousands of lifes, each one with their own unique stories, their own aspiration, fears, and thoughts occupying their mind.
The idea intrigues him.
There's a cigarette between his lips and his grey eyes are staring off into the distance, like he's counting the stars. Maybe he is.
Maybe he is secretly playing with the thought of leaving her. Quit smoking, quit coming back.
Quit her.
She comes up behind him, takes the cigarette from his mouth and watches as he blows the smoke into the night sky. It dances around in swirls, beautifully, for a few moments before it disappears fast in the warm air.
She takes a pull herself. He takes the cigarette back and watches her exhale.
Maybe he smokes because it gives his hands something to do. Maybe it makes him feel manly. Maybe it's part of his act. He stopped asking himself that question long ago.
Her caramel eyes watch him closely; take in his beautiful aristocratic features, his soft blonde hair. His beauty never ceases to amaze her.
Her gaze wanders further down – his defined chest, his flat stomach, the fine trail of golden hair that disappears in the white towel he has wrapped around his waist.
She's wearing nothing at all. If the neighbours were to come to their balcony in this second, they'd see her fully exposed. She doesn't give a damn. She's still sweaty and carrying the scent of sex.
When she reaches for his cigarette again, he holds it an arm length away from her and nods to the full package lying on the small coffee table beside them.
"Get your own." His voice is raspy. Side effects.
When his mother first saw him smoke, she told him he'd end up dead. Dead with his mudblood and her muggle drugs. Most mornings, he regrets it all. Her and the cigarettes. She knows it all too well.
While she lights her own, she thinks about all the bad things in this world and why she seemed to be drawn to every single one of them.
"Why do you think are people drawn to the things that destroy them?" She asks between her puffs.
His gaze flickers over to her, roaming over her naked form.
"They make you feel alive." He doesn't take his eyes off of her. He sounds sure of himself.
Maybe that's it, she thinks. But why would things make you feel alive if they are slowly killing you?
"What about you? Are you feeling alive?" Her eyes watch him curiously.
She takes a step closer.
"When I'm with you, always." Now he's gazing at the stars again, but she's not satisfied.
"You're saying that I destroy you." It's a statement.
His eyes are on hers again. Now it's him who steps closer, their skin is touching. As always, she feels it as though small electric shocks run through her system. The sparks seem almost visible.
His grey eyes fixate her; seem to look down into the depths of her soul as he takes her chin between his fingers.
"We both know that I was doomed the day I met you."
"But you keep coming back." Her voice is barely a whisper.
"Perhaps it's not only the nicotine I'm addicted to."
She escapes his touch and walks away from him as far as the small balcony allows. A few moments of silence pass while she leans over the balcony to look down on the streets far below, bustling with life even though it's way past midnight.
"Maybe cigarettes aren't the only things I use."
He's suddenly behind her again, and his soft, pale fingers capture her waist and start drawing small circles on her skin. He doesn't miss her shiver and the way she bites her lip. No matter what she says, he's convinced she needs him, too, in a way. Her skin is like silk under his fingertips.
He starts peppering kisses onto her neck, and she willingly tilts her head to give him better access. His teeth find her earlobe and he softly nips on it.
But just as his hands move to undo the towel around his waist, she turns around.
"I think I have to go."
His brows furrow, but he doesn't say a word. Only watches her as she gently puts a hand against his cheek and reaches up to capture his lips with her own softer ones.
All he tastes is the stale smoke.
All he feels is the strange thrill, the adrenaline and a hunger buried deep inside of him.
I'm alive, he thinks. And he is. As alive as he is only when she is around. As alive as only her touch makes him. Her touch and her nicotine.
When she lets him go, she throws her used cigarette over the balustrade. He watches the small glowing point disappear, the red and gold dot getting smaller and smaller until it's gone. Gone and never to be seen again, its light gone out forever.
When he looks up again, the cream white curtains are fluttering in the warm breeze through the half-opened glass door, and the balcony is empty.
He looks at his own cigarette, just a small stubble left. He throws it at his feet before stepping onto it to make sure it's out. He coughs.
He slowly makes his way over to the small table, where an empty bottle of red wine stands. The cigarettes are gone. He's glad about it.
And still, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air along with the stale smoke keeps him hoping she'll come back.
Because no matter how deadly they may be, addictions have the habit of never really letting you go.