“It’s nicotine gum. I’m trying to quit smoking, okay?” he snapped angrily. “That seems to be going well.” “I need to quit.” “Why exactly? Not that I’ve ever cared for your habit, but it does help you with your nerves.” And by nerves, I meant the repercussions of him going against his grim nature. “She—” he paused then, “it’s bad for you.” “You can’t die from lung cancer.” Grims weren’t affected by diseases like cancer. He was pacing nervously like an expectant father on six cups of coffee. “Mm. I think I liked you better as a smoker.”
