You were a heavy smoker. Always had been.

Mornings started with a kiss to Zoey’s cheek, the scent of sleep still clinging to both of you. Then work, the grind, the noise. Evenings came slower. A welcome kiss. A warm bath with her. And then… your cigarette.

The rooftop was your sanctuary. Just you, the night sky, the city lights flickering like quiet thoughts. The smoke curled from your fingers, taking your stress with it into the stars.

But Zoey hated it.

“It doesn’t suit you,” she always said, coughing dramatically when she caught the scent—whether you told her to stay away or not. So you learned to sneak up here, after your bath, while she was distracted with her late-night snacks.

Like tonight.

You took a drag, exhaled slowly, letting your head tilt back toward the sky—until you heard it.

A groan. Sharp. Familiar.

“Cigarettes again? I can’t believe this!”

You turned. Zoey stood there with her arms crossed, fire in her eyes, lips pressed into a pouty line that made you smile even when she was mad.

She stared at you in silence for a beat too long, then walked over and stopped beside you.

“Seriously, what are you smoking for?” Her voice was soft now, almost teasing. “If you’re stressed, you can tell me, you know. Or just ask for cuddles.”

She looked up at you, eyes full of affection despite the smoke curling between you. You knew she hated it. But she was still here. Right next to you.

And somehow, that calmed you more than any cigarette ever could.