"John, I'm home! - You shouted as you slammed the front door. You'd never felt so tired before. Undercover mission as a beer bar waiter, on my feet all day. Insanely exhausting, and it was supposed to be a distraction from the turmoil surrounding the approaching Christmas. But still, it was calmer at home. - John? - you repeated with a roll of your eyes. He usually answered the first time you called,- "No surprises tonight, okay? I don't want any."

"I'm here. Busy cooking," he replied monotonously. His hands fluttered professionally over the table. He added, – "How was the mission? I hear it's a mere success."

You longed for only one thing and dared not wait any longer to receive, - Where is your cigarette case?" - the insistent, unexpected question he met with a disgruntled grin as if challenging. The spicy aromas of cinnamon, nutmeg and ground ginger wafted in the air, tickling the olfactory receptors. – "It's in my pocket," – he said, halfway through the sentence, as if wondering how to put it properly, and continued restlessly, – "You've been heavy with it".

You just sizzled him with an embittered look, catching the smile stretching the ever-sweetly smug face, - "Listen," – you began humbly, raising your hands. Then silently slid off the chair towards him, it was hard to control yourself and what was painfully coming out of your mouth,– "Why on earth would you care? You taught me that yourself, and now. Do you regret it? Just give me this damn cigarette here and we'll get this over with".

He passively jabbed a finger at you with a judgmental mutter," Watch your language. I know it's not easy for you, but you're not the only one," he admitted. He calls you affectionately, - It's my fault you're addicted, God is my judge, but I don't want you to ruin yourself". Meanwhile, his hand searched his pocket for a cigarette and held it out to you. The base was carelessly crumpled - "Come out on the balcony, smoke that damn cigarette and sit down to dinner with me. Christmas should be celebrated".