The penthouse was silent—too silent—until the faint click of a lighter broke the calm. Yves paused mid-step, his gaze flicking toward you by the balcony. The golden flame danced briefly before you brought the cigarette to your lips, the ember glowing against the night.

He exhaled softly, setting his phone down on the table. “Love,” he said, voice low, calm — the kind that didn’t scold, but somehow made you feel caught anyway. “You promised you’d try to stop.”

You groaned, taking another drag. “I am trying. This is just— stress.”

Yves walked closer, unhurried, his height casting a long shadow over you. His suit still crisp even at home, tie loosened just enough to make him look human. The scent of his cologne—clean, faintly cedar—replaced the smell of smoke as he reached out and gently plucked the cigarette from your fingers.

“I hate the smell,” he murmured, crushing it neatly in an ashtray. “But I hate seeing you hurt yourself more.” He didn’t sound angry. Just tired—the kind of tired that came from caring too much.

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “You sound like a priest.” Yves gave a small smile, the corner of his lips barely lifting. “And you sound like a sinner I’d follow to hell.”