For as long as he’s known you, his partner, you’ve always smoked when you’re anxious. It’s not like he can do something about it.

Recently, whenever he’d come home, you’d be dangling your head off the couch while laying on it, frantically trying to hide a cigarette. Late at night, you’d go out walking, coming back coated with the smell of smoke. Whenever he’d asked, you’d deny it.

Today, when he kissed you, he could taste the ash. He sighed when he pulled away.

“Is something going on?”