Eucalyptus & Honey |H.S.|

Prologue

Stevie

The smell of smoke burned my nose in the kind of way that made my fingers twitch. The memory of rolled paper sat between them, a faint red glow eating the material each time I inhaled.

My arms undesirably brushed against sweaty bodies as I shoved my way through them. Their heads were tilted back in pure elation, hair plastered to their sticky foreheads and necks as everyone grinded against one another—uncaring of who was in front of, or behind them.

I mumbled half-assed apologies as I worked my way through the crowd, only one goal in mind—the feeling of the burning smoke filling my throat and lungs as it lightens the weight of my head from my shoulders. I didn't smoke all the time. Only socially. My definition of socially just happens to be any instance in which another person is present.

I pulled the sliding glass door open and nearly choked on the fresh air. My lungs have a hard time inhaling anything that isn't charring them.

Stepping out onto the balcony, the exposed skin of my legs prickled against the coolness of the night. One other person already leaned against the rail of the balcony, a lit cigarette dangling loosely from his lips.

Honey brown hair curled at the nape of his neck and his hair sat in perfectly messy waves as if he had repeatedly ran his fingers through it. His shoulders were broad and muscled and his back, ass, and legs were equally as lean. He wore a dark red and black-striped t-shirt lazily tucked into high-waisted plaid pants of a similar color and white leather boots with a slight heel. His left arm was heavily tattooed, and I craved to see the other tattoos hidden underneath the fabric of his clothes.

He didn't look in my direction as I leaned on the railing of the small balcony next to him and directly asked, "Do you mind?" I held my pointer and middle fingers out as indication for him to hand me a cigarette.

Still focusing on the crowd of people in the backyard that were in various states of intoxication, he picked up a bent cigarette box and shook one out, holding the entire carton in my direction. I pinched the rolled paper between my fingers and placed my sweet relief between my lips.

"You got a light?" I asked around the cigarette.

He finally looked in my direction and my mouth went dry when his eyes met mine. They were such a dark green under the silvery moonlight that they almost appeared black. Still, they were unmistakably green. They were fucking beautiful. He was fucking beautiful.

He stood about half a foot taller than me, so he had to bend his head a bit to look into my eyes. He started to lower his head closer to mine and my entire body stilled.

My eyes were trained on his pink, heart-shaped lips as the end of his burning cigarette met mine. My lips pursed and I inhaled deeply with the breath I forgot I had as my own cigarette lit up into an orange glow.

He smelled like eucalyptus and honey which was funny because that was what he was. Eucalyptus and honey. I didn't need to know him to know that. I had the insane urge to throw the cigarettes separating our burning lips off of the balcony and press them together.

Instead, I pulled away and faced the backyard in the same way he had been when I first stepped onto the balcony. I inhaled my cigarette deeply and almost laughed. Of-fucking-course it was menthol. Of-fucking-course his mouth would taste like mint and cigarettes.

"It's a bad habit, you know." His accented voice startled me out of the silence that had once firmly weighted against our bodies and I coughed on my exhale. God, his accent could fucking kill me.

"I only smoke socially."

"Me too." His voice held a hint of humor and I looked up to see a small dimpled smirk already facing me. The fucking dimples. You've gotta be fucking kidding me. I let out a small scoff at the obvious joke and rolled my eyes. His dimples deepened a fraction and I turned my head again before he could realize I was staring.

"So, what possessed you to spend your evening at this shitty party?" I asked, releasing the taste of my cigarette with my words.

He chuckled at my bluntness and turned around so that his back leaned against the railing and he crossed his arms against his chest, his cigarette limply resting between his lips. The burnt paper almost reached the filter.

I took a half a step back so our bodies could face each other more directly and when I looked into his face again, I found his eyes leisurely roaming my body. They began at my black platform boots, slowly and deliberately moving up my exposed legs to survey my black mini skirt. He briefly paused over the exposed skin of my upper thigh from the small slit in my skirt. His gaze travelled upward over my soft, green-plaid cardigan that was buttoned over a simple white crop top. His eyes rested a beat too long on my chest, and when they finally reached my face again, my cheeks grew hot from the scrutiny.

His gaze decidedly landed on my lips that were wrapped around my burning cigarette as he finally spoke. "I guess I'm a bit of a masochist." He shrugged and a sharp laugh escaped my throat at his words. "What's your excuse?"

"Oh, I'm the one throwing this shitty party, so I guess I'm a bit of a sadist," I replied with a shrug of my own and his laugh was just as sharp as mine had been. All humor left his voice, however, when he said, "Yeah? Fuck, that's hot."

His dimples made another appearance as I rolled my eyes and light-heartedly shoved his chest. I covered my face with my hands and shook my head as I groaned, "Fuck off," into my palms.

His laugh sounded full this time. My wrists tingled when he wrapped his hands around them to uncover my face. He dropped my arms at my sides and I unconsciously rubbed my skin that still tingled after the loss of contact.

His dead cigarette was now pinched between his fingers as he ground it against the railing of the balcony, a black smudge accompanying the hundreds of others that were previously there from the same action. I watched as he brought his fingers to my lips and stole the cigarette that had been dangling there uselessly, placing the half-smoked cigarette between his own lips. His eyes tracked the movements of my tongue as I wet my mouth. His pupils nearly consumed the green of his eyes, causing them to look almost entirely black.

My breath caught in my throat and I desperately craved the taste of the cigarette again. The taste of his mouth. God.

I wanted Harry Fucking Styles.

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