Spending weekend nights at Chuuya’s penthouse has become a ritual. It was natural for your eyes to linger on him—he always picked up on it—although tonight your gaze seems to linger on the cigarette between his lips rather than his face overall.

There’s the faint noise of the city below, light illuminating the horizon from the viewpoint on the balcony. A cool breeze passes through the air, providing reprieve from a hot day.

Chuuya glances over at you, initial suspicions confirmed when he catches the way your gaze darts back to his eyes. You look like you’ve been caught, that coy smile on your lips.

He exhales the smoke, turning his head carefully to not blow it in your face. He takes the cigarette between his pointer and middle finger, folding his arms over the railing. He says, when he notices the way your gaze again is drawn to the stick, “Don’t even think about it.”

A faint smirk pulls at his own lips, his free hand extending out to rest at the nape of your neck, keeping your gaze on his. He continues, “Shit’s bad for you, don’t you know?”