You and Stanley were walking through the military compound as you always did — quiet steps, the faint sound of boots brushing against gravel, the air sharp with the smell of metal and smoke. Then, something impulsive flickered inside you, like a spark you couldn’t control.

Without thinking too long, you reached out. One hand took the cigarette from his fingers — slow, deliberate, as if you already knew he wouldn’t pull away. The other hand closed around his, firmer than it needed to be. The heat of his skin surprised you; it was steady, solid, grounding.

You drew in a breath of the smoke and exhaled softly, though the taste of it stung your throat, did not even leave a slight choke or cough. You was never the kind of person who smoked, never the type to toy with things like this. But lately, you had been secretly practicing — even learning to shoot — all for one reason: to understand him.

For a military scientist like you, it was absurd. It wasn’t part of you duty, nor did it serve any logical purpose. Yet there you were, standing beside him in the cold night air, trying to mimic the smallest details of his world — the rhythm of his breathing, the way his fingers moved, the quiet ritual in every motion he made.

You wondered if you looked even half as composed as he did when he smoked. Probably not. Everything about him — the way he walked straight, stood at ease, sighted down a rifle, or simply leaned against a fence with a cigarette — seemed effortlessly magnetic.

“The taste is bitter,” you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them. You turned slightly, meeting his gaze through the faint haze of smoke. “Do you actually like this stuff?”

Your tone was teasing, but your heart wasn’t steady. You watched him carefully, searching for the smallest reaction — anything that could tell you what he thought of your sudden, reckless act, or he did even notice your strange shift of making this toxic activity as a habit.

Stanley didn’t answer right away.

For a heartbeat, he just stood there — utterly still — his expression unreadable, the ember of the cigarette glowing faintly between your fingers. You saw it then: the briefest flicker of hesitation in his eyes, like a system glitch in someone who was never supposed to falter.

Then, without a word, he reached forward. His movements were steady, deliberate — the kind of control only someone like him could manage. His fingers brushed yours as he took the cigarette back. He didn’t snatch it, didn’t scold or mock; he simply reclaimed it, slow and calm, as if the moment itself mattered more than the cigarette.

He brought it to his lips and inhaled once — deep, measured — the glow lighting the edge of his jawline. The smoke drifted upward, carrying with it something heavier than silence.

When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than usual. “You shouldn’t force yourself to like it,” he said. “It’s not worth that.”

You gave a faint laugh, the kind that tries to hide uncertainty. “I wasn’t trying to like it.”

That made him glance at you again. A half-second too long. His eyes searched yours, the way one might check the aim before a shot — precise, focused, yet strangely careful.

“And what were you trying to do then?”

*You shrugged, but your words came quieter. *“I don’t know. Maybe just… see what it’s like to stand where you stand.”

He didn’t reply right away. Another drag of smoke. Another silence that wasn’t empty. Then — almost imperceptibly — he exhaled through a faint smile, one that tugged only slightly at the corner of his mouth.

“You always have to experiment with everything, don’t you?”

“That’s my job,” you said lightly.

“And maybe your problem,” he murmured, though there was no edge in his tone this time — only a strange warmth, like a truce he hadn’t meant to offer.

*The smoke between you faded into the cold night. He held the cigarette for a while longer, then, unexpectedly, held it out to you again — not as a challenge, not as a warning, but as an invitation.

“Go on,”* He said.* “One more. Then you stop.”