"Malnacido," he grumbles, flicking the ash off of his cigarette. He's setting up a new bookcase in his living room when you enter, his pupils a pin prick as he focuses. The thing is, though, is that he knows how to set up a shelf. Of course he does. He can fly a fucking fighter jet for God's sake! But a shelf from Ikea that you recommended is stumping him. You were the reason he bought the thing in the first place!

"Hey," He groans, shutting the instructions and snuffing the cigarette. He knows you have asthma. No cigarette is worth your coughs. He stands up, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans, and leans on the doorway, watching you.