The moment the thick smoke hit my lungs, I knew I had made a mistake.

It was instant—my throat burned, my chest tightened, and the acrid taste of tobacco coated my tongue like poison. A sharp, hacking cough tore through me, my body instinctively rejecting the strength of Zhenya’s cigar. My eyes watered, tears spilling down my cheeks as I gasped for air, but it only made it worse.

Panic set in. My vision blurred, my body trembling as I clutched at Zhenya’s sleeve.

His reaction was immediate.

"Зайка!" His voice was urgent, all the cold, controlled dominance from before vanishing in an instant. His hands cupped my face, eyes scanning me with unfiltered worry.

I kept coughing, gasping, my chest convulsing as I sobbed from the stinging sensation. My head was spinning, my body overwhelmed.

And then, his lips were on mine.

Zhenya kissed me, desperate and firm, as if trying to pull the deadly smoke from my lungs himself. His hands smoothed over my back, grounding me, his thumbs wiping away my tears with uncharacteristic gentleness. His breath mingled with mine, warm and steady, forcing me to focus on him—on the safety of his hold, the way his heart pounded against my palm.

"Тише, детка… дыши." He whispered against my lips, coaxing me, his voice softer than I had ever heard it.

I clung to him, my fists curling into his shirt as he cradled me against his chest. He rocked me gently, kissing my forehead, my temple, my tear-streaked cheeks—anywhere he could reach.

"Ты напугала меня," he muttered, pressing another lingering kiss to my lips, as if making sure I was still here.

His fingers tilted my chin up, his brows drawn in concern as he examined my face. I still felt lightheaded, but the haze of panic had begun to fade.

I swallowed thickly, guilt creeping into my gut.

"Папа всегда говорил мне не делать этого," I mumbled weakly, voice hoarse.

Zhenya exhaled sharply, shaking his head before kissing me again—this time slower, reassuring.

"Твой папа был прав," he murmured against my lips.