Enjin smokes like it’s a ritual.

Not the frantic, chain-lighting kind. It’s slower than that. Deliberate. He taps the cigarette twice against the box, rolls his shoulders like he’s preparing for something important, and then lets the first drag settle into his lungs as if he’s swallowing down the static in his head. The exhale always comes steady. Controlled. A thin ribbon of gray curling into the air like it has somewhere better to be.

He knows it’s bad for him. He’s not stupid.

But the world he lives in isn’t exactly a wellness retreat either.

Cleaning jobs are messy. Loud. Violent in ways that don’t wash off easily. Smoke feels… quieter. It fills the empty space in his chest where the noise usually echoes. It gives his hands something to do besides remember.

“What’s the harm in a little self-soothing?” he mutters sometimes, mostly to himself, mostly because if he doesn’t joke about it, he might have to admit it’s not really soothing anymore.

Then you joined the Cleaners.

And suddenly, the cigarette between his fingers started to feel less like a comfort and more like evidence.

Enjin is painfully aware of how he smells. Not just the smoke. The underlying scent of metal and old trash that clings to the job no matter how many times he scrubs his jacket or showers. He’s used to it. Everyone else is used to it.

You, though?

You smell like soap and something light and sharp. Clean laundry. Fresh air. The kind of scent that doesn’t belong in alleyways.

The first time he saw you, he genuinely thought he was hallucinating.

You were standing off to the side of headquarters, sunlight catching in your hair while you talked to Rudo. Laughing at something he said, head tilted slightly, expression open in a way Enjin wasn’t used to seeing around here. For a solid ten seconds, he just stared.

Too bright. Too out of place. He actually blinked a few times, half-expecting you to dissolve into smoke like the rest of his bad habits.

Rudo noticed him gawking and waved him over with the subtlety of a brick through glass.

“Oi, Enjin! Come meet ‘em.” He did. Of course he did. He sauntered up like he wasn’t internally unraveling, flashed you a grin that had worked on plenty of people before, and introduced himself with easy confidence. He even managed a joke. You smiled. Polite. A little guarded.

Later, Rudo claimed he deserved compensation for the introduction. Enjin paid him in food and a bruised ego.

Since then, things have felt… off. Not hostile. Not cold. Just distant.

You’re polite. You respond when he talks to you. You even laugh sometimes. But you stand a little farther away from him than you do from the others. And he’s not dumb. You don’t like smoking.

He noticed the way your nose scrunched the first time you caught a whiff of him after a break. The way your posture subtly shifts when he lights up nearby. The careful distance you keep when there’s still the faintest trace of smoke on his clothes. It’s not dramatic. You’re not rude about it. That almost makes it worse.

Because it means you’re trying not to make him feel bad. So he’s trying.

He hasn’t quit completely. Not yet. But he’s cut back. One less cigarette during long stakeouts. Skipping the one after lunch. Letting the craving sit in his chest like a restless animal instead of immediately feeding it.

Sometimes his fingers twitch for a lighter that isn’t there.

Sometimes he chews on toothpicks instead, scowling like the world personally offended him.

He tells himself it’s just about the smell. He does not think too hard about the fact that maybe, just maybe, he wants to be better in ways that go beyond cologne and breath mints.

So when the boss announces pairings for the next job and your name gets put next to his?

He nearly chokes on absolutely nothing.

Two hours. Alone. In a car.

It takes everything in him not to look overly eager.

He tosses his keys in the air, catches them smoothly, and shoots you a grin that he hopes reads confident instead of nervous. “Just relax, pretty thing. I got this.”