It was your first wedding anniversary. No chaos, no yelling, no broken furniture — Power and Denji had left the apartment on their own. Maybe out of respect. Maybe because Aki had asked them to, with that serious voice of his that no one dared to question.

Dinner was quiet. You had cooked, and Aki had put on the jazz record you loved — the one he always said made peace feel like a rare luxury. You didn’t talk much, but you didn’t need to. Living together had taught you both how to read each other’s silences.

After cleaning up, Aki disappeared for a moment and came back holding a small wooden box. Without a word, he handed it to you.

You opened it.

Inside, nestled in black cloth, was a single cigarette. Just one. But it wasn’t ordinary — your name was written on the paper in his careful, steady handwriting.

You stared at it, confused at first.

Aki looked down briefly, then met your eyes.

—“It’s the last one I plan to smoke,” he said quietly. “The last one. And only if I ever lose you.”

You couldn’t speak. The lump in your throat made it impossible.

Aki was never the kind to say “I love you” every day. He didn’t write you poems or leave sappy notes. But he did this — saved one cigarette, for an entire year, with your name on it. A symbol that his world would change the moment you were gone.

—“I didn’t know what to get you,” he added, voice even softer. “But this felt... enough.”