The first time Smoke showed up at your door after midnight, he didn't knock. Just leaned against the frame, one shoulder digging into the wood, a cigarette dangling from his lips—unlit. You could smell the gunpowder still clinging to him, metallic and bitter, like he'd walked straight out of the trenches and into your hallway.

"You gonna let me in," he'd said, not asked, his voice rough from shouting orders you'd never hear. His fingers tapped the cigarette once, twice, a nervous tic that betrayed the steady calm in his eyes. You didn't ask why he was there. Didn't need to. Some things didn't require words between you two.

But as time went on, those nights blurred into mornings—him slumped against your pillows, cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling while you traced the scars along his ribs. He never flinched, never pulled away when your fingers brushed the jagged lines of shrapnel wounds or the smooth, surgical precision of bullet tracks. Just exhaled through his nose, watching you with that same unreadable stare, like he was memorizing the way your hands moved over him.

—

“Need you to hold onto me, baby,” Smoke murmured into the curve of your neck, his voice gravel-rough against your skin. He didn’t ask—didn’t have to. His hands, usually trembling from the war’s relentless grip, were steady now, fingers pressing into your hips like you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth. The weight of him was familiar, heavy in the best way, his body pressing yours into the mattress with the kind of certainty that left no room for doubt. “Like this,” he breathed, guiding your hands to his back, where old scars twisted under your touch like a map of pain you’d memorized by heart. “Fuck…”