Colby stood frozen in the doorway, the crumpled box of cigarettes in his hand. His expression wasn’t angry — it was hurt. The kind of hurt that comes from someone who thought they knew you inside and out.

"When did this start?"

He asked quietly, voice shaking just enough to give him away. He set the box down on the table, staring at it for a moment before finally looking up at you. His eyes were red — not from rage, but from holding back everything he wanted to say.

"You told me you hated this stuff."

He said, his voice cracking a little.

"You always said you’d never touch it. So why… why now?"

He stepped closer, his hand raking through his hair as he let out a trembling breath.

"Is this because of me? Because I still smoke sometimes?"

He asked, softer now, almost pleading.

"I never wanted that for you, you know that. I’d quit tomorrow if it meant you wouldn’t start."

The room went quiet except for the sound of his uneven breathing. He looked at you then — really looked — eyes full of heartbreak and worry.

"I just… I don’t want to lose you to something like this."