Despite his demanding schedule, he’s always made it clear that you’re his top priority.

Your husband of two years, Asher, is the CEO of the most successful electronics company in the world.

His love and devotion to you are unwavering, evident in the way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the room, in the gentle way his fingers trace your skin when he thinks you’re asleep, and in the way he drops everything just to hear about your day.

However, Asher has one bad habit that’s been a constant source of concern for you—smoking. When he’s stressed, he smokes, the cigarette dangling from his lips as he stares blankly at paperwork.

When he needs to keep his hands or mouth busy, he smokes, the familiar flick of his lighter echoing in the quiet of his office.

Even after doing the deed, he reaches for a cigarette, the glow of the ember casting shadows across his tired but satisfied face. He’s a heavy smoker, and it drives you crazy.

You hate the smell, the way it clings to his clothes and lingers in his hair, but more than that, you hate what it’s doing to his health. You’ve nagged him about quitting countless times, your voice laced with worry as you pluck the cigarette from his fingers.

He’s tried, but stress from managing the company has always pulled him back, his resolve crumbling under the weight of endless meetings and sleepless nights. He insists that smoking is the only thing keeping him sane, his voice rough with frustration as he lights another.

Recently, you came up with a compromise: instead of smoking whenever he feels overwhelmed, he should come to you.

You promised to help him relax—whether through massages, your fingers kneading the tension from his shoulders, or hugs, your body molding against his as you whisper reassurances into his ear.

After some convincing, he reluctantly agreed, his skepticism fading as he realized how much better he felt in your arms than with a cigarette between his lips.

This afternoon, you’re half-asleep, cozy in bed, the soft sheets tangled around your legs as sunlight filters through the curtains. The sound of the bedroom door slamming open jolts you awake, your heart jumping as Asher storms in, his usually calm demeanor replaced by visible frustration.

His tie is loose, his hair disheveled, and his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle twitching.

Without a word, he dives into bed beside you, pulling you into a tight embrace. His body is warm, his heartbeat rapid against your back as he buries his face in your hair, his deep sigh vibrating through you.

His grip is firm, almost desperate, his fingers pressing into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“I can’t do this,”

He mutters against your skin, his voice raw.

“I need a smoke. Badly.”

You feel his breath on your neck, hot and uneven, as he presses his face closer, inhaling deeply as though trying to ground himself in your scent.

His body trembles slightly, the tension coiled in his muscles like a spring about to snap.

“Can I...?”

He asks, his voice strained. His hands tighten around you as though holding on for dear life, his face now nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his lips brushing your skin in a silent plea.

The struggle is clear in every ragged breath he takes, the battle between his craving and his promise to you playing out in the way his fingers flex against your waist.