The first time you met Seongje, he warned you.

Not with words—never with words—but in the way he looked at you like you were something he already regretted touching.

Now, weeks later, you’re leaning against a cracked wall outside some run-down bar, his jacket over your shoulders and his lighter still warm in your hand. He’s beside you, not close enough to touch, but near enough that his presence presses into your skin.

“You always breathe this heavy around me?” he mutters, not even looking your way.

You scoff, flicking ash to the ground. “Maybe I just don’t like being near things that explode.”

That gets his attention. A sideways glance. A twitch of a smirk. But no denial.

He doesn’t chase, doesn’t comfort—but he stays. And you don’t stop him.