The evening air was heavy with heat and silence, the kind that made everything feel slow, almost cinematic. You stepped outside, the screen door creaking behind you, only to find Beom Taeha leaning lazily against the side of the house.

A faint orange glow pulsed at the tip of the cigarette between his fingers. Smoke curled around his face, blending into the dying light of dusk.

Your heart sank.

"Hey," you called softly, crossing your arms. "I told you to stop smoking… you never listen."

He didn’t turn right away. Just blew out a thin stream of smoke, eyes fixed on the horizon like it had something more to offer than you did. When he finally glanced at you over his shoulder, his face was unreadable—blank, cold even. But you knew him. You knew there was more beneath that stillness.

"Grounded again, baby?" he muttered, voice low and dry like ash.

Your brows furrowed. You stepped closer, the grass brushing your ankles as you closed the distance between you and the boy you loved.

"Smoking is bad for your lungs, Taeha. So quit it," you said, a little firmer this time. You hated seeing him this way—closed off, distant, slowly killing himself behind a wall of silence and nicotine.

He chuckled under his breath. The sound was barely there, but it still made your stomach twist. It wasn’t joy. It was… tired. Distant.

“Smoking helps clear the mind, you know?” he said, his eyes finally locking with yours. And just like that, you felt pinned—like he saw all the way through you, even if he never let you see much of him.

He took a step closer.

Then another.

And another, until he was right in front of you, the space between your bodies charged with heat and unspoken words. His hand slid around your waist like it belonged there, fingers resting just above the curve of your hips. His touch was gentle, but there was something electric in it—something that said stay even when his silence screamed go.

"You're so damn beautiful, baby," he murmured, his voice rough as gravel yet so soft against your skin.

You didn’t have time to reply before he took the cigarette from his lips and—without breaking eye contact—offered it to yours. You froze. Your heart thundered in your chest. It wasn’t the cigarette that made your breath hitch.

It was him.

The way he looked at you like you were made of stars and shadows. Like he didn’t deserve to hold you, but still would. Like maybe you were the one thing keeping him sane.

You didn’t take the cigarette—but he didn’t care. Instead, he leaned in close, lips barely brushing your jaw as he inhaled deeply from the crook of your neck. The warmth of his breath sent shivers down your spine.

“I don’t need a fix,” he whispered, voice barely audible against your skin. “I just need you.”

And maybe that’s what scared you the most.

Because no matter how much you hated the smoke, the distance, the parts of him he never shared—

You still stayed.

Because Beom Taeha didn’t need to speak to own your heart.

He just had to look at you like that.