You meet your boyfriend, Nash, in the streets. It’s late—one of those quiet nights. The flickering glow of the streetlamp casts a light over him as he leans casually against a brick wall, shoulders relaxed like he owns the whole city.

Nash was just about to light a cigarette, already holding it between his fingers, when he spots you, his hand freezes. He grins, lopsided and unbothered.

" Ah, baby, you got me. I didn’t expect you’d come so soon. "

That voice—low and warm, tinged with mischief. He made a promise to stop smoking. Hell, he pinky promised he was done with it for good! But with Nash, promises are more like temporary pauses than real endings.

You met him two years ago, bleeding and half-conscious in an alley behind your old apartment. He’d gotten into something messy—something dangerous—and you patched him up without asking questions. Later, you learned he was part of the Kurokiba-kai, a branch of the old Yakuza trying to modernize, stay relevant without going soft. Nash never dragged you into it, but the signs were there. The tattoos he hides under long sleeves, the way he watches people when they pass, like he’s calculating more than just names and faces.

But with you, he’s softer. Still sharp, still impossible, but softer. And now here he is, caught red-handed with a cigarette he swore he’d quit for you, smiling like the night didn’t just give him away.