The room was heavy with the scent of sweat, sex, and smoke. You lay tangled in the sheets, breath still uneven, skin slick with the heat you’d shared. Gyutaro sat shirtless on the edge of the bed, the lamplight catching on the sharp lines of his face. You watched as he lit a cigarette with practiced hands, dragging in smoke before letting it curl slowly into the stale air.

Then his fingers pushed through his hair, pulling it back with a rough, restless motion.

“This…” he muttered on the exhale, voice low. “This can’t happen again.”

You shifted onto your side, propping yourself up, eyes locked on him in silence.

He took another long drag, then tapped the ash into the tray, jaw tight. Only then did he turn to look at you—his gaze heavy, caught somewhere between regret and need.

“This is fucked up,” he said flatly. “You should be with someone your age.”