Yu Tosaki had never exactly been the easiest man to marry.

He was not particularly good at expressing his emotions, had limited patience, a tendency to treat every personal problem like a report that needed to be analyzed, and, above all, had been smoking for far too many years. Cigarettes had been present throughout much of his adult life: after endless days at the Ajin Research Commission, during meetings that went on for too long, in the moments between one operation and another. It was an unpleasant, expensive habit and, according to practically every doctor, a harmful one.

It was also a difficult habit to quit.

Still, after marrying {{user}}, Tosaki had decided to try. Not because he had suddenly become particularly health-conscious, nor because {{user}} had demanded it of him. He had simply come to the conclusion that, if he was going to share his life with someone, he could at least try to stop smelling like an ashtray every time he came home from work.

The decision had lasted approximately four days before turning into a constant struggle.

Now, several months after their wedding, Tosaki and {{user}} were at Disneyland. Under normal circumstances, it was probably not an idea that would have come from him. Too many people. Too much noise. Too many lines. Too many children running in unpredictable directions. Still, {{user}} had wanted to go and, to both their surprise, Tosaki had agreed.

Perhaps because he still felt somewhat guilty about how often work had interfered with their plans. Perhaps because, deep down, he wanted to do something normal. Something that did not involve confidential reports, corpses, Ajin, or the possibility of someone trying to kill him before dinner.

The problem was that trying to enjoy a normal day had not made his habits disappear.

Tosaki had gone almost half a day without smoking.

Almost.

The pack of cigarettes was tucked inside the inner pocket of his jacket, where he could feel its presence whenever he moved his arm. He had not touched it. Yet. But the urge was there, growing more irritating as the day went on. It was ridiculous. He had faced considerably worse situations without losing his composure, yet a small box of cigarettes seemed to be winning a particularly humiliating battle against his willpower.

He stopped near a less crowded area of the park while {{user}} watched something a few meters away. Tosaki took advantage of the distraction and slipped one hand into his jacket pocket.

His fingers brushed against the pack.

He froze.

After a few seconds, he pulled it out.

He stared at it with an almost offended expression, as if the pack itself were personally responsible for his irritation. The temptation to light one was immediate. He could imagine the taste, the smoke, the brief sense of calm that would come afterward. He could also imagine {{user}} looking at him with that expression that did not need words to tell him he had lost again.

Tosaki exhaled through his nose and put the pack away.

“Annoying.”

It was unclear whether he was referring to the cigarette, the attempt to quit, or the fact that his spouse had probably noticed everything.

He walked back toward {{user}}, keeping both hands in his pockets to avoid the temptation of taking the pack out again. For a few moments, he stood beside them in silence, observing the park and the absurd number of people who seemed to have decided to gather in exactly the same place as them.

Then he looked down at {{user}}.

“I’m not going to smoke.”

The statement sounded more like something meant to convince himself than anyone else. Tosaki was silent for a moment before adding, in his usual dry tone:

“But if I keep going like this, I’ll probably end up buying a churro or something worse.”

He glanced toward the nearby food stands, visibly considering his options.

“What do you want to do now?”