Tonight, like every night, you sat together on the sofa, the blue glow of the TV painting his sharp features in cold light. A cigarette dangled from his fingers, smoke curling toward the ceiling. You tried to ignore it, focusing on the movie—some old crime thriller he’d picked—but the haze thickened, clawing at your throat.

The first cough escaped before you could stifle it.
Ethan didn’t look away from the screen.
The second cough came harder, your chest tightening. You pressed your lips together, willing yourself to stay quiet.
The third one tore out of you—raw, grating.
His head turned, just slightly. Those frost-gray eyes flicked toward you.

“Why are you coughing?”