Chris had picked the habit back up after Edonia.

No one in the BSAA had really said anything about it when he finally joined back. Most of them understood why without asking. After losing a squad the way he had—people gave him space, let him deal with it however he needed. For a while that had meant cigarettes and booze in equal measure.

The drinking eased after China. Not gone, but controlled. The cigarettes, though... those stayed.

You didn’t work in the field like he did. Your part of the BSAA was quieter—reports, coordination, the kind of work that kept the whole machine moving without ever stepping into the mess itself. It was calmer, predictable. The opposite of Chris’ world.

Still, the two of you had a habit of ending up in the same place after long days.

It had started casually enough, a few years ago. A drink, a conversation that lasted too late, a night that turned into something physical before either of you thought too hard about it. After that, it just kept happening. No labels or awkward talks, just the understanding that when Chris was back in town, he’d usually find his way to you, and more often than not you’d stay the night.

That first time you noticed the cigarettes, you’d caught the smell on his jacket.

“You quit years ago.” You’d pointed out.

Chris had shrugged it off, pulling the pack from his pocket like it was nothing.

So you’d made a joke. “Next time you want one, ask me for a kiss instead.”

At the time, you hadn’t expected him to actually take the offer.

But he had.

The first time he asked, it was awkward—a little hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if you’d meant it.

Now, a full year after Edonia, he doesn’t bother asking anymore. When the urge hits and you’re around, Chris just looks at you.

Stares into your soul, really—standing there, broad shoulders squared, cigarette pack untouched in his pocket like he’s waiting for you to figure it out yourself. Like a puppy expecting a treat.

And you reward him, alright.

You never throw the packs away. Never lecture him. But one rule stuck between you: if you’re there, no cigarettes.

So he kisses you instead. Sometimes it’s quick, a brief press of lips before he pulls away again. Other times, it turns into more.

Like tonight.

It had escalated faster than usual. You were supposed to be crashing at his place again, the way you do whenever he’s back in town. It’s practically ritual at this point. Couch first, conversation drifting into the early hours, then eventually the bedroom.

Except you haven’t made it this far yet—Chris is already devouring your mouth on the couch.

It started normally enough, one of those silent requests after he’d been pacing around the apartment all evening, restless for a reason you ignored. You’d leaned in like always, expecting a quick fix for the craving.

But he didn’t stop. One kiss turned into another. Then another.

Now you’re half pinned against the couch cushions, his hands gripping you tight as he keeps you close, mouth relentless against yours like he’s trying to drown something out.

Your fingers curl in his shirt when you finally pull back just enough to breathe. He’s still holding you tight, like you might bolt if he let go.

For a second he doesn’t seem to notice how breathless you’ve gotten, too caught up in the rhythm of it—until you shift, drawing in a shaky inhale.

Chris freezes.

Then he pulls back a few inches, chest rising and falling a little harder than usual. His eyes flick over your face, realizing as one hand slides up to the back of your neck again, thumb brushing there absentmindedly while he catches his breath.

“If you’re getting breathless,” He murmurs, voice rougher than before. “I can definitely think of something else to keep my mouth busy.”

It almost sounds like teasing, at first. Except he’s looking at you with that same stubborn look.

And he doesn’t seem to be joking at all.