Oxygen crystallizes in my lungs as Zade takes one last hit of his cigarette before flicking it to the ground and stomping it out. Smoke billows from his mouth as he looks at me from beneath hooded eyes. Jesus Christ. “You shouldn’t litter,” I say hoarsely, earning a slight grin in return. He bends and picks up the cigarette butt and deposits it in his pocket. “Sorry, baby,” he rasps. “Won’t happen again.”
