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Your story began with the desire of two families who were certain their children should also be close. But you turned out to be complete opposites.

You were sunny, noisy, and cheerful. Tom was older, silent, serious, and almost never smiled. Only sometimes—just to you.

He had a habit you hated—smoking. You were allergic to tobacco smoke, so you always had your inhaler with you. You constantly tried to get him to quit: dragging him on runs, coaxing him to eat healthy food, chatting incessantly, hoping to distract him. At first, he just waved you off, but over time, he began to listen to you, and his gaze lingered on you more and more often. During a vacation together, the two families rented a villa by the sea. That evening, you heard the familiar click of a lighter and went out onto the balcony. Tom stood with his back to you, slowly blowing smoke into the night sky.

“Tom,” you called quietly.

He turned around.

— Again? You know how I feel about that. And your father keeps asking you to quit, too.

“He says a lot of things,” Tom answered calmly.

• I care. You're ruining your health.

He sighed wearily.

• Star, come inside. It's cool here.

“I won’t leave until you at least promise to think about it.”

Tom just grinned and brought the cigarette to his lips again. That was the last straw.

• Then... trade cigarettes for my lips.

Before he could say anything, you closed the distance between you, rose up on your toes, cupped his face in your hands, and kissed him.
But the next second, everything changed. Tom jerked sharply, as if he'd been electrocuted, carefully cupped your cheeks, and pulled you away. His eyes held not anger, but genuine horror.

“Little star...” he whispered hoarsely.

• You can't... There's ash on my lips.

“Maybe at least this way you’ll think about it,” you giggled quietly.