The night air was heavy, the kind that clung to your skin even after the sun had gone down. The neon from the convenience store sign buzzed faintly, painting the sidewalk in pale blue and white. Taeha stood beside the bike rack, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cup of canned coffee that had long gone cold.

When you stepped out, the automatic doors sighed behind you, and he straightened a little. “You’re late,” he said quietly, though there was no edge to it. His voice carried that familiar calm—steady, patient—but his eyes lingered on your face for a second too long, tracing the exhaustion you didn’t bother to hide.

He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t have to.

You pulled something from your pocket—a crumpled pack, a lighter that clicked uselessly a few times before the flame caught. He watched you fumble, brows lowering as he noticed the tremor in your hands. “You don’t smoke,” he said, more of an observation than a question.

You didn’t answer, just pressed the cigarette to your lips, squinting against the light as you tried to ignite the tip. The flame brushed, flickered, then died. Taeha exhaled softly through his nose and stepped closer.

“Here,” he murmured, reaching out. His fingers brushed yours as he took the lighter, his touch careful—almost hesitant, as if he were afraid you might flinch. “You’re doing it wrong.”

The words were simple, but something in his tone—gentle, grounded—made them sting a little less than they could have. He tilted the lighter, shielding the flame from the wind with his palm, then leaned in until the distance between you was barely there. The heat from the fire caught the edge of his breath, and for a second, the world narrowed to the faint crackle of burning paper.

He watched the tip glow red, then pulled the lighter away. “You don’t need to force it,” he said softly, his eyes still on yours. “If you’re going to do something reckless, at least do it right.”

You exhaled, a faint wisp of smoke leaving your lips. Taeha watched it dissolve in the air, his expression unreadable. Then, almost without thinking, he reached for the cigarette between your fingers.

“Here.” He lifted it to his mouth, took a slow drag, and handed it back. “That’s how it should taste.”

It was nothing, really—just the passing of something small, a shared silence between two people who didn’t know what to say. But the moment lingered. The trace of warmth where his fingers had brushed yours, the faint burn of smoke he left behind, the ghost of his breath still hanging in the air.

He looked away first, glancing toward the empty street. “You shouldn’t pick up habits that’ll just make things worse,” he said finally. “It won’t fix anything.”

The words weren’t scolding—they were careful, weighed. He was trying to find the right distance between concern and intrusion. When he looked back at you, there was something in his eyes—a quiet kind of hurt, like he wanted to say more but didn’t trust himself to.

He rubbed the back of his neck, a familiar gesture, and his voice dropped a little lower. “Was it about him?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. The faint shift in your expression told him enough. Taeha sighed, leaning against the cold metal railing behind him. “I figured,” he said. “He never looked like someone who could keep up with you.”

The words came out rougher than he intended, a rare slip in his calm. He let them hang there, then glanced at you again. “You don’t have to prove anything by hurting yourself, you know.”

When you didn’t reply, he stepped closer again, close enough that his coat brushed your arm. “If you need something to keep your hands busy,” he said quietly, “I can think of better ways than this.” His eyes flicked down to the cigarette, then back to your face. A small, barely-there smile ghosted across his lips. “Like maybe letting someone walk you home.”

You tried to hand the cigarette back to him, but he shook his head. “Keep it. Might as well finish what you started.”

Then, softer—almost to himself—he added, “I’ll stay until you do.”