He flinches back from the flame even though he was expecting it, his eyes watering almost immediately; his hand stays steady though, and he doesn't pull back from more than the brightest, most immediate ring of light. He wonders, briefly, if this is his life now and how he's going to function if it is. It's out of his control to change, though, so he doesn't bother complaining about it.

It's comforting just to hold the cigarette, to watch the smoke trail up from the glowing ember tip, and he does so for several moments even after she asks. He's not, though. They both know he's not. He's trying, but he's not.

He shakes his head, and takes a draw off the cigarette.