Andy and Rhysand celebrate Rhysand's six months without cigarettes.

*

"Yay!" Andrea shouts, clapping her hands, widest grin on her face. "Congratulations, baby!"

Rhysand doesn't know why he has a cake. Andrea has cake for everything. He blinks, puts his bag down, and walks over to her with a raised eyebrow. "Congratulations for...?"

His wife gives him an incredulous look, blinking.

Shit. Rhysand racks his brain. What did he do recently to deserve this? What did he do to deserve cake?

Andrea's laugh pulls him out of his thinking, tiptoeing to kiss him quickly on the lips. "It's your sixth month quitversary, love."

"What the fuck is that."

Andrea rolls her eyes, puts down the cake, and wraps her arms around his neck. Rhysand's own go immediately to her waist. "Six months since you quit smoking," she whispers, brushing her lips against his.

Rhysand can't help the smile on his mouth. His toes curl from the kiss, and Andrea presses in deeper, tilting her head. Rhysand pulls back a little. "Really. That's today?"

She nods, biting her lip. "Mm. You promised me you'd try and quit and you did."

Rhysand doesn't know it's been that long. Compared to his years being a smoker, six months is nothing.

He wasn't a social smoker. He didn't smoke when he was drinking, when he was just stressed, every once in a while—he smoked. Period. The couple of sticks a day, non-occasional, consistent smoker.

That was who he was at twenty-one up until he was twenty-four. Smoked during lunch, after work, after sex, when he was stressed, when he wasn't. They tasted particularly wonderful and fucking addicting.

Then Andrea came with her fuckin' sunshine and lollipops, turning her head to the side, covering her nose whenever he had a stick in between his teeth, and—and Rhysand read that secondhand smoking is worse than the actual smoking, and he knew, somehow in some fucking way, that Andrea was going to stick around, and he needed to let go of it.

She's still looking at him, brushing his hair out of his eyes, a gentle smile on her beautiful face. "You good, baby?"

Rhysand nods once, squeezing her hips. "Mm. S'just crazy to me."

Andrea strokes his face sweetly. "I'm so proud of you," she whispers, and Rhysand's heart fucking—just melts. Because she means it. "Thank you for quitting. I know it's not easy."

It's not. Smoking used to be his main de-stresser. He had a pack in his pocket, or in his bag, and he—it took time for him to not miss the taste, exchange it for stawberry-flavored lollipop. He was cranky and irritable, sometimes, he had headaches—but those weren't the hardest.

The hardest was being at bars and keeping himself from running outside for one smoke. It was being with his co-workers and not joining them for a smoke break. It was feeling high after sex and not reaching out for something that would even make him high-er.

There was one time, before he quit, that he smoked after making love to Andrea. Although she admitted she found it hot, she glared at him for smoking in their bedroom. "If I can't make you dazed enough after sex that you need a smoke, I'm not doing it right," she said, pouting.

Rhysand put it away and kissed her.

And then he stopped buying packs. His fingers itched to have a stick, but whenever he recognized the urge, he unwrapped a goddamn lollipop.

He sighs and nods. "It's hard," he admits quietly.

Andrea cards her fingers in his hair soothingly, and Rhysand relaxes. "It's the first time you admitted it," she murmurs.

She's right. Rhysand doesn't usually make it a point to tell her how hard he's been trying—except for when he announces to her that he bought lollipops instead of cigarettes, because he needs to tell her because he knows she'll be happy. It's a small thing. It's such a small thing to celebrate, but Andrea celebrates it, anyway.

And then she'll see him pick her up with a lollipop in his mouth, or she'll see his drawer in his studio stocked with them. She'll remind him every day to please don't smoke, baby!!!, and she doesn't have the assurance that he won't actually do it except for his okay, sunshine.

Generally, Rhysand is a healthy guy. He goes to the gym, he exercises regularly, he eats healthy, only drinks on occasion.

It's the smoking he's had a problem with. His lungs.

"Thank you for worrying about my health," Rhysand mutters, tucking her head in his chest. He takes a deep breath, and says, "Thank you for being patient and understanding. For your little reminders every day. For always telling me you're proud of me," he whispers, kissing the top of her head.

Andrea hugs him to her and mumbles in his shirt, "Thank you for trying so hard to quit."

His lips curve, and he sways them. "You know, I was craving one the other day."

The lust was fucking—it was fucking unbearable after a long day at work.

His wife pulls back to look at him worriedly. "What happened?"

"Well, the idea of disappointing you upset me more than how good smoking makes me feel."

She stares at him. "You know, that just earned you a blowjob."

Jesus Christ. A loud laugh bubbles up in his chest, and Rhysand throws his head back. "Sunshine, God, I was being romantic."

Her laugh takes his breath away. "I love you," she whispers in his lips before she kisses him.

Rhysand's smiling. "I love you too. So bad."

She pulls away and takes the small cake with the number 6 candle on it, and hurries to the kitchen. "Come on, love! Wanna eat the cake!"

Rhysand follows after her, catching the silliest grin plastered on his face in his reflection on the mirror.

*

"Hey, sunshine."

Andrea doesn't look up from her laptop, fingers continuing their typing. She only raises an eyebrow and mutters distractedly, "Mm?"

Rhysand sits down on her desk, takes out the lollipop from his mouth and puts it in between her lips.

His wife's eyes go wide, mouth in an 'o'.

Rhysand grins and pulls out the lollipop, and puts it back in his mouth, sucking it. "Don't work too hard," he drawls lazily, and leaves the room.

He laughs down the hallway, and imagines his wife's entire face go red.