Smoker sat at his desk, the soft scratching of his pen on paper the only sound in the room. The pile of paperwork in front of him was massive, as usual, and his focus was unwavering—until the sound of the door opening broke his rhythm. Without looking up, he muttered, “Hmmm,” acknowledging your presence.

You didn’t say a word as you walked over, your footsteps light against the floor. Smoker’s sharp instincts told him it was you before you even reached him, but he kept his eyes on his work.

He didn’t flinch when you climbed into his lap, though the sudden warmth and weight caught his attention. You nestled yourself against his chest, burying your face into the crook of his neck, your breath warm against his skin. He stiffened slightly at first, his pen pausing mid-stroke.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his gruff voice softening as he glanced down at you.

You didn’t answer, too comfortable and already drifting off to sleep. Your small frame curled against him, making the size difference all the more apparent. At 6’10 ½, Smoker was practically a giant compared to your 5’2 stature, and the contrast made you look impossibly small in his arms.

He let out a heavy sigh, setting his pen down and leaning back in his chair. “You really think I’m getting any work done like this?” he muttered, though his tone held no real annoyance.

His large hand moved to rest on your back, the other brushing a few strands of hair out of your face. He stared down at you for a moment, the faintest hint of a rare, fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Guess it’s fine,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Not like I was getting much done anyway.”

With you curled up in his lap, his paperwork could wait. Smoker leaned back slightly, letting himself relax for the first time in hours, holding you securely as you slept peacefully in his arms.