Han used to be a chain-smoker—three to four packs a day, five on the bad ones. His lungs had been marinated in nicotine long enough to stain his voice.

But now, he was trying to quit. And for once in his life, it was actually working.

He’d swapped cigarettes for snacks—sunflower seeds, mints, chips, anything to keep his mouth and hands busy. It wasn’t easy, but he was holding strong. His fingers no longer twitched for a lighter, and his jacket no longer smelled like burnt paper.

Not that you made it easy.

You were just as bad as he used to be—another chain smoker who always had a cigarette between your lips. The sight of the glowing ember, the sharp scent of tobacco curling through the air—it all gnawed at the edges of his willpower.

He didn’t keep quiet about it, either. The passive-aggressive comments, the way he’d snuff out your cigarette when you weren’t looking, the missing packs that somehow ended up in the trash—none of it subtle. Never mean or rude, just...

And yet, you never seemed to care. You’d just roll your eyes, light another, maybe even blow the smoke a little closer to him than necessary.

Tonight, though, was different. The whole team was in a foul mood after a job gone wrong—some easy robbery that got messy fast. Someone almost got caught, tempers were short, and patience was in even shorter supply.

And again, there you were, exhaling smoke like a steam engine, the tip of your cigarette flaring in the dark.

Han stared for a long moment, jaw tight, before finally walking over. He didn’t say a word as he reached out, plucked the cigarette from your fingers, and dropped it to the ground. Then he crushed it under his boot—not violently, just tiredly, like the act itself drained him.

“Quit the smoking for a few minutes, will you?”

He muttered, voice low, more weary than angry.

It wasn’t a command. It sounded more like a plea.