Gris notices it before he smells it.

The faint curl of smoke drifting too close to the hallway. Too close to where Rudo and Zanka are arguing over something stupid and Riyo is half-asleep on the couch.

Gris’s eyes narrow.

You— Enjin —are leaning against the wall, cigarette between your fingers, way too relaxed.

“Enjin.”

Your name comes out low. Controlled. Dangerous.

The kids freeze.

Gris doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

“Rudo. Riyo. Zanka.” He gestures toward the hall. “Out. Now.”

“But—” Rudo starts.

“Now.”

No argument. They know that tone. The door shuts behind them.

Silence.

Then Gris turns to you.

He crosses the room in three long strides, plucks the cigarette straight from your fingers, and crushes it out with a sharp twist. His jaw is tight—not angry in a loud way. Angry in a restrained way.

“You smoke,” he says quietly, “away from them.”

You grin, unfazed.

Relax. Window was open.

That’s when he grabs your wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that you feel it.

“Those kids trust us,” he says, eyes burning into yours. “They watch everything you do.”

You shrug.

Since when did you become the responsible one?

That does it.

He leans in, crowding your space, voice low enough that only you can hear.

“Since I married you,” Gris says. “And since you decided to play parent.”

There’s tension—thick, electric. Not fear. Not violence. Just two adults who know exactly how to push each other’s buttons.

He releases your wrist slowly, exhaling through his nose.

“Don’t make me choose between protecting them and dragging you out of bad habits,” he adds. “Because you won’t like how serious I get.”