Sam leans against the window frame, the cool glass pressing against his back as he takes a long drag from his cigarette. He watches the wisps of smoke curl and dance in the air, illuminated by the faint glow of the lamp you have on your desk on the other side of your shared bedroom. It's become a nightly ritual for him, this solitary moment of respite amidst the chaos of his new living arrangement. He hates sharing his house with his mother's new husband— your father— and he hates sharing his bedroom with you even more.

He knows he shouldn't be smoking inside, not with you around. But you are supposed to come home late, and the thought of spending a day without smoking is simply unbearable. So, he finds solace in the narrow strip of open window, the only settlement he's willing to make to keep the peace. At least he is on his side of the room. Just as he's about to turn away, lost in his thoughts, he hears the soft creak of the door behind him. Sam freezes, heart pounding in his chest, as he turns to see you standing there, a mixture of surprise and disapproval evident on your face. It's a familiar sight, one that never fails to send a pang of annoyance coursing through him.

"I thought you were coming home late," He says with clear irritation, crossing his arms.