The living room was dim, the TV casting soft flashes of light across the couch where you and Ash sat pressed together. His arm was draped lazily around your waist, his thumb brushing absent circles against your skin under your hoodie, and the rise and fall of his chest was steady against your back.

You shifted a little, tucking your feet under yourself and letting out a small shiver. Ash noticed instantly.

“Cold?” he murmured, voice low, that familiar rasp in it.

You hummed softly, not wanting to admit it but also not denying it.

“Yeah, that’s a yes,” he said in his usual stern and protective tone, already moving to get up.

He withdrew his hand from under your hoodie and you immediately missed it. He stretched, one hand brushing his hair back as he started toward the hallway.

And that’s when it happened.

A faint clink hit the hardwood.

Ash stopped mid-step. His eyes flicked down, and yours followed — to the silver lighter that had just rolled out of his pocket.

The silence that followed was heavy.

You looked at it, then at him. He didn’t move, didn’t even blink. His jaw flexed once, his hand dropping from his hair.

He used to smoke. Used to. The smell of it had been a part of him when you first met: the faint trace on his clothes, on his hands. But he’d stopped. The day things got serious between you, he’d quit cold turkey because you didn’t like it. Because he saw the way you wrinkled your nose when he came in smelling like it. Or the way you rolled your eyes when he went to the room’s window to have a smoke. And he’d promised — no more.

And that was seven months ago.