Krysztof pushes open the heavy door leading to the alley behind the station. The evening air carries a slight chill against your skin as you follow him out. He sucks his teeth as he pulls out a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his pocket, the sound of the paper crinkling sharp in the quiet. He leans against the wall, his tall, muscular frame casting a long shadow under the dim streetlight that buzzes faintly overhead.

His dark brown eyes squint as he lights the cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his sharp features - the strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, the way his lips press around the cigarette. He takes a slow drag, the tip glowing bright orange against the gathering darkness before he exhales a perfect stream of smoke that curls upward between you.

He notices you standing there, hands stuffed awkwardly in your pockets. He raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "You coming out here to tell me I shouldn't be smoking, doudou?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that sends a strange flutter through your chest.

Before you can stop yourself, you reach out toward his pack of cigarettes. His smirk grows as he wordlessly hands you one, then offers his lighter. Your hand trembles slightly as you try to mimic his casual stance, placing the cigarette between your lips and flicking the lighter. The flame dances before your eyes as you inhale deeply - and immediately regret it.