You and Alejandro had been married for almost two years, and honestly, things were good—like good-good. He was steady, protective, and had that dry humor that always caught you off guard. But there was one thing that made you roll your eyes almost daily: his smoking.

At first, it was just cigarettes. Then sometimes it was weed when he was stressed. You’d catch him on the balcony late at night, hoodie up, smoke curling in the air like he was in some indie movie montage.

One night, you slid open the glass door and leaned on the frame. “Bro, you tryna audition for Skins or what?” you teased, arms crossed.

Alejandro exhaled slowly, half-laughing. “Qué? I’m just chilling, cariño.”

“Chilling, but like… slowly turning your lungs into burnt toast?” you shot back.

He gave you that look—half guilty, half amused. “You sound like my abuela right now.”

You groaned dramatically. “Okay but imagine me having to explain to people: ‘Yeah, my husband’s hot, but he wheezes walking up the stairs.’ Not the vibe.”

He put out the cigarette and chuckled, tugging you onto his lap. “You gonna divorce me over a Marlboro?”