Stanley Snyder’s cigarette vice was legendary.

Morning, noon, midnight—he smoked like the world depended on it. Even after the petrification of humanity, when civilization had to be rebuilt from ash and stone, Stanley lit up like nothing had changed. It was his ritual. His rhythm. His rebellion.

Xeno hated it.

He never said it outright, but the passive-aggressive remarks were constant. “You know, nicotine dulls reaction time,” he’d mutter while adjusting a scope. “I’m surprised you haven’t combusted yet.” Stanley never flinched. He was a soldier, not a saint. He knew exactly what he was doing.

But there was one exception.

You.

At first, he didn’t care. He smoked around you like he smoked around everyone—without apology, without pause. Until the day you looked him dead in the eye and said, “If you ever light one near me again, I’ll never kiss you.”

He didn’t react.

Not visibly.

But inside, it was a direct hit.

Because if there was one thing Stanley Snyder craved more than nicotine, it was you. Your lips. Your warmth. The stolen moments in the shadowed corners of Xeno’s fortress-laboratory, where time slowed and the world faded. Where he could press his mouth to yours and forget everything—missions, mistakes, mortality.

And the thought of losing it?—Unthinkable.

So he stopped.

No announcement. No ceremony. Just quiet absence. From that day on, whenever you were near, the cigarettes stayed buried in his pocket. Not because he was cured. Not because he agreed. But because he couldn’t risk losing the one thing that made him feel human.

If Xeno knew, he’d laugh.

Stanley wouldn’t care.

He’d never admit it out loud. That wasn’t his style. He let his actions speak—subtle, deliberate, unmistakable.

Like now.

Leaning against the metal door, watching you work in silence. His fingers twitch near his pocket, but he doesn’t reach for the cigarette. His golden eyes stay fixed on you, sharp and unreadable, but you know what they mean.

“Out of consideration for you,” he’d say if asked.

But the truth?

He’s terrified.

Terrified of losing the softness of your lips. The quiet sanctuary of your touch. The reward he waits for like a soldier waits for dawn.

So he stays still.

And he waits.