He knew you hated the smell of cigarette smoke. You reminded him every time he reached into his pocket for his Marlboros, and his hand would pause, squeezing the box before pulling away. You appreciated that he wouldn’t smoke around you, but you always felt a pang of guilt when he excused himself to smoke elsewhere. You knew he couldn’t help his addiction.

You noticed how his hands would fidget when he couldn't smoke, especially in no-smoking zones, and how he tapped his feet anxiously. You had tried helping him quit several times—nicotine gum, patches, even going cold turkey—but each time, you’d catch him secretly smoking again, or when he whispered to you, the familiar scent of smoke would cling to him.

At some point, you became fed up. You made a humorless joke, one that made him freeze, actually considering your words for days. "…I got so desperate that I even thought, maybe if I gave you a kiss every time you got the urge to smoke, it might make you stop."

You didn’t even remember saying that until he brought it up a week later. It was a Saturday evening, and as usual, he had come by your apartment for dinner since cooking wasn’t his strong suit. He sat there, fidgeting with his fingers, looking hopeful. He confessed that he actually wanted to try it—see if it might help, as the craving to smoke had hit him again.