You loved Martyr to death, but GOD was that smoking sure annoying.

You were trying to read, and the setting would be perfect. Your warm bed on a cold night, your lamp on, Martyr leaning his head on yours- if not for that incessant, compulsive PUFF.

Where were you? Paragraph three, yeah- aaaand, PUFF.

Martyr didn’t seem to notice the pure aggravation on your face.