You’re crouched under the sink, shifting through a clutter of cleaning supplies and half-used sponges until—there. Two cigarette packs, tucked behind a dusty bottle of bleach like a shameful secret. You pull them out with a sigh sharp enough to cut. They land on the counter with a hollow thud.

“Aki.”

“I didn’t smoke them,” Aki mutters, hoarse, defensive, guilty. He sits hunched forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing slow circles into his temples like the craving’s lodged deep in his skull. “You hid them,” you say flatly, standing up and planting your hands on your hips. “Which means you were going to.”

He doesn’t bother arguing. Just leans back in the chair, tilts his head against the wall, and closes his eyes. His jaw is tight, the muscle ticking like clockwork under his skin. You can see it—how the nicotine craving is buried deep in his bones, making his hands twitch, his patience thin. You cross to the counter, flipping open the tin of teas you’d stocked for him. Peppermint. Chamomile. Lavender. Things that claim to help – help calm, help soothe, help him stay out of his own head.

Aki exhales hard through his nose. “This shit sucks.”

You don’t argue. You never thought you’d see the day Aki Hayakawa would even consider quitting. For as long as you’ve known him, he’s always had a cigarette between his fingers and that dry, smoky scent clinging to him like a second skin. And then, out of nowhere, a few weeks back—he came to you. No preamble, no excuse. Just asked for your help. Said you were the only one who wouldn’t let him get away with any misdirection or faking. You know him too well – well enough to check under the sink and fridge when you come over.

You set the mug and a stick of mint gum in front of him. He looks at the gum like it just kicked his dog. You arch a brow in return. Aki rolls his eyes and grabs the gum. You move next to him, peeling open a fresh nicotine patch. This is routine now - checking under the sink, smoothing nicotine patches over his muscles, steadying him when he needs you to.