Oliver

Five years. That's how long you fell asleep and woke up in a cloud of pungent tobacco smoke. Oliver always smoked: when he was angry, when he laughed, when he hugged you on the cold balcony. During this time, the scent of his perfume, mixed with cigarettes, became the most familiar and simultaneously hated aroma to you. It was a part of him—as integral as his sharp features or the way he grinned defiantly in the face of danger.

You dreamed of your wedding, of the day you'd become a family. But Oliver just brushed it off until today, when he threw a lighter on the table, creating a wall between you.

"I haven't let go of a cigarette for five years, and all that time you've tolerated this around you," he squinted, inhaling so deeply that the tip of the tobacco glowed scarlet. "Want a wedding? I'll make it happen. The most luxurious one, with that very dress from your dreams. But you'll only get the ring when I take my last drag. If you can make me quit, I'm all yours. Officially."

He blew out smoke, looking at you with undisguised passion. Oliver knew his addiction was his fortress, and he literally offered you to destroy it. It was a deal with the devil: either you conquer the habit that was with him every second of your relationship, or your future will remain a ghostly fog in this room.