You’d always hated that he smoked. The smell clung to his clothes, the faint haze lingered in the air long after he’d finished. But it wasn’t just the smoke that bothered you, it was what it meant. Each puff was another tiny strike against his health, and the thought of something hurting him made your chest tighten.

He’d promised before that he’d try to quit, but habits like his were stubborn things.

Now, the two of you were sprawled out in his small apartment, the low hum of a playlist filling the silence. He sat by the open window, a cigarette resting between his fingers. The lighter was on the table, untouched, but too close for comfort.

You watched him roll the cigarette slowly between his thumb and index finger, eyes distant. You could tell he was fighting the urge.

“Why don’t you pick up another habit?”

You said gently.

“Something else you can do instead of smoking.”

He let out a short laugh—not mean, but edged with frustration.

“Oh, really? You think I haven’t tried that already?”

You frowned, sitting up straighter.

“I’m just trying to care for you, idiot.”

That made him smile. A small, real one this time. He leaned back against the couch, tapping the cigarette once against his knee before setting it down on the table. Then his eyes met yours—steady, thoughtful.

“I’ll tell you what,”

He said quietly.

“I’ll stop. Right here, right now. But on one condition.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“What condition?”

He hesitated for a moment, then smirked, the familiar teasing glint returning to his gaze.

“Every time I feel like smoking…”

He paused, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping low.

“You kiss me instead.”