"John, I'm home! - You shouted as you slammed the front door. You'd never felt so tired before. There was no holiday mood as such, it smeared under the weight of the day. Undercover mission as a beer bar waiter, on my feet all day. Insanely exhausting, and it was supposed to be a distraction from the turmoil surrounding the approaching Christmas. But still, it was calmer at home. - John? - you repeated with a roll of your eyes. He usually answered the first time you called,- "No surprises tonight, okay? I don't want any."

Taking off your oversized military boots with a slight groan of relief, you hung the small leather jacket on the hook, your fingers lingering there for a moment, giving yourself a chance to adjust to the formal setting where you didn't owe anyone anything. Just being was what was needed for three days, fiddling around in a shithole on the errand of a supposedly diner boss. You wanted to shut yourself off from the world, take a couple puffs, and drift off to sleep in ignorance of the next day. Ignore the Christmas you didn't like so much.

The sensation of other men's sweaty hands running along your lower back, glimpsing you while no one was looking, squeezing your buttocks, couldn't be forgotten as soon as you would have liked. Disgusting men? No, they're animals who want to take what doesn't belong to them. Your comrades remembered you as independent, sensible and stubborn, but there you were just a little scared little girl cornered, wishing her daddy wouldn't punish her with a belt. Nausea rose to your throat, intending to break out at the realization that they'd heard every dirty word you'd uttered through the buttonhole hidden under your shirt.

"What juicy...eyes you have," one of the drunks laughed hoarsely, glancing appraisingly at your deep-cut shirt. Gritting your teeth and pulling a semblance of an embarrassed smile onto your face, something buried inside you screamed to say something caustic, to start an argument, but you were content to flirtatiously flap your eyelashes, "Thank you, sir."

Your hair is still braided into a thick braid, which has lost its sleek shape, taking on a disheveled appearance and a pair of cocks on the top of your head. The shirt and what barely covered her thighs - you couldn't call it a skirt - had been tossed into the nearest street garbage can to be eaten by vagrants and hobos. Your eyes were already drooping, because You were terribly exhausted. You waddled down the corridor to the kitchen, barely shuffling my feet on the cold tile, without the strength to lift your head up, such was mother's laziness.

"I'm here. Busy cooking," he replied monotonously. His hands fluttered professionally over the table. While the golden chicken was marinating, salt crystals dissolving into the tender meat, he chopped crisp vegetables that would later take their place on a small tray, preparing to become a fragrant bed for the bird. Without taking his eyes off the cutting board, he added, – "How was the mission? I hear it's a mere success."

"It is," – you shrugged, taking a seat across from him. The creak of metal against wood enveloped the lonely apartment. Today, the ornate Christmas tree standing in the corner that you'd decorated together didn't inspire coziness. You longed for only one thing and dared not wait any longer to receive, - Where is your cigarette case?" - the insistent, unexpected question he met with a disgruntled grin as if challenging.

The spicy aromas of cinnamon, nutmeg and ground ginger wafted in the air, tickling the olfactory receptors. – "It's in my pocket," – he said, halfway through the sentence, as if wondering how to put it properly, and continued restlessly, – "You've been heavy with it".

Oh yeah. You'd be lying if you said you smoked before you met John. The previously rejected smell of tobacco slowly turned into the smell of home. It's a favorite addiction. In general, with all smokers, and the military in particular, smoking is a whole ritual, sometimes confusing, but always seemingly beautiful to the owner himself. It is possible to exclude it as a passing weakness that accumulates day by day, but the best explanation is just a pleasant company and endless stress. You work in special forces - be ready to by your own hand, pursued by the flow of common values needed by all, but not you. Human consciousness in a stubborn shell is a bad synthesis fraught with dangerous relapses.

For a couple of seconds you just sizzled him with an embittered look, catching the smile stretching the ever-sweetly smug face, - "Listen," – you began humbly, raising your hands. Then silently slid off the chair towards him, it was hard to control yourself and what was painfully coming out of your mouth,– "Why on earth would you care? You taught me that yourself, and now. Do you regret it? Just give me this fucking cigarette here and we'll get this over with," – every new venom-soaked word was accompanied by a step closer.

You were right. His addiction was passed on to you and he regretted it. Still too young for the lifestyle of a heavy smoker, but what about him? He solved your problems like he solved his. With a pipe between his fingers.

You stopped to his right, tapping the pads of your fingers on the cool marble table, waiting for the command. Your eyelids flattened revealing a true tired look, your voice a little more gentle, pleading, "I need it, John. Please give me the cigarettes."

His patience and attempt to be considerate were not appreciated, hence the business of dealing with the familiar Price. Huffing in disagreement, with a sharp movement he stuck the tip of the knife into the board, turning on you. Eyebrows furrowed, a slight crease in his forehead. The broad shoulders that gave him the squat appearance that made his height conspicuous were hunched under the weight of responsibility. His eyes blazed intensely with unspoken irritation, but at the same time the glare of concern for his well-being, dimmed by the light of the lamp, made him look alive. In their reflection, a broken you was visible, which couldn't help but frighten one into missing a ringing heartbeat. A hand wet with vegetable juices rose as he passively jabbed a finger at you with a judgmental mutter," Watch your language. I know it's not easy for you, but you're not the only one," he admitted, diluting the intensity of what was happening by lowering his tone almost to a whisper, as if it were an intimate revelation. He calls you affectionately, - It's my fault you're addicted, God is my judge, but I don't want you to ruin yourself. I'm not asking you to quit, just be careful. There are plenty of other ways to distract yourself."

Your eyes widened in surprise, the contrast between John's absorbed regular discipline and rare caring side was striking. Having lived with him under the same roof for four months, the last time you'd caught him so rebelliously excited was only after a successful soccer match. Meanwhile, his hand searched his pocket for a cigarette and held it out to you. The base was carelessly crumpled - "Come out on the balcony, smoke that fucking cigarette and sit down to dinner with me. Christmas should be celebrated. Whether you want to or not, I don't care, because you need company."