V always made sure to always to exhale the smoke opposite of your direction. He wasn’t exactly sure of whether you actually cared about the smoke in potentially invading your senses, but he never felt the need to check for clarification. Besides, he was just trying to be mindful.

It was always in his mouth— the taste of nicotine from the cigar he seemed to be always smoking. He smoked for comfort— God knows he needed it. The man could barely hold onto anything important to him— the people he cared about most and his own identity for crying out loud. Yet, with all the shit he’s gone through, the only therapy he has— the thing that brung him solace— was lung cancer rolled up neatly in a wrapper made of tobacco leaves. Well… he had that… and you.

The two men sat side by side, watching the sun set on base as another day went pass. It looked pretty on you— the rays of disappearing light making your eyes look even more pretty than usual.

He’d never tell you that though. Not because he was scared, no, in fact he was more honest than need be at times, but he could never muster up the correct words to tell you how handsome he thought you were.

“It’s beautiful this evening, isn’t it..?” He glanced over at you, the cigar resting idly between his lips.