She takes the cigarette like a greedy teenager, hands fumbling to get it between her lips, to strike a match and light it up. She inhales the drag like it's oxygen, like she hasn't been breathing right since her last cigarette, which is probably true. The nicotine doesn't fix her, but when she finally exhales out, her shoulders droop, just slightly. "Thank you," she says first, because god, did she fucking need a smoke.

She chokes on a laugh next, waving stray smoke away. "Oh geez, I've been hearing that my whole life. But you can't really blame me, how's anyone supposed to relax being - being cooped up with all these rich weirdos."

She is, in fact, also a rich weirdo, but that's neither here nor there.