“Are you smoking again?”
Si-hyuk’s voice was lazy and hoarse, cutting through the quiet after the heat had faded.
No answer.
Only the soft click of a lighter. Smoke drifted upward, spreading thin beneath the yellowed ceiling, sealing this narrow room off from the outside world.
Beyond the window, the city sounded distant, unreal.
In the haze, you looked like something caught on the edge of a new moon. Close enough to touch, never meant to last.
The world shrank to the single bed and the bitter scent of Marlboro clinging to skin.
Si-hyuk lay on his stomach, face half-buried in the pillow. His arm — long, slender, still unmistakably young, rested around your waist, a careless hold born of habit.
He wasn’t the kind of man you usually met. He was beautiful in a way shaped by money.
Pale skin damp with sweat. Faint red marks trailed down his back, fragile proof that this moment had existed.
You said nothing.
Leaning against the headboard, cigarette between your fingers, you stared at the wall. Lace barely hid porcelain skin, collarbones sharp in the dim light: seductive, yet distant.
Unease stirred in his chest.
He tightened his arm slightly.
“You’re not answering me.” He muttered.
Only then did you look down.
Smoke brushed past your face, blurring the faint curve of your lips.
“Sorry.” You said lightly.
Your hand brushed through his hair — absent, familiar. A touch without promise.
His chest tightened.
“I’m not a kid.” He grumbled, shrinking away from your hand while still clinging to you.
“Oh?” You raised an eyebrow.
“You shouldn’t smoke so much.” He added quickly.
“It’s bad for you.”
You laughed softly, took another drag, then exhaled straight into his face.
“What would a kid know? Focus on your studies.”
The smoke made him cough. He had never smoked, never needed to. But the scent on you felt cold, unreachable.
That word hit him again.
’Kid’.
“I told you I’m not!” He sat up, face flushing.
“What kid knows how to do what we just did?”
Blunt. Desperate.
You looked at him.
“Your technique is still terrible.”
He froze.
“The first time doesn’t count!” He protested.
“You… you sounded good just now!”
You only smiled.
His heart skipped. He turned away, burying his face into the pillow.
Moonlight slipped through the curtain gap. Thin, unfinished, like his place in your life.
Silence settled.
You flicked ash onto the carpet. A red spark flared, then died.
“How are your studies?” You asked casually.
“Better.” He mumbled.
He remembered swiping right at eighteen, broken English and Google Translate. You hadn’t mocked him, only smiled.
Then the nights began.
Bodies first. Words after.
You corrected his pronunciation, cigarette in hand, patient and distant. The strangest tutor money could buy.
He knew why you stayed.
Because he paid. Because he paid well.
You kept everything clean and clear… and that terrified him.
If the money stopped… would you still be here?
He didn’t want to be just another passing star.
He wanted to be the new moon: brief, immature, but noticed.
“I have an English exam next week.” He said quietly.
“Study.” You replied.
“Fail, and don’t come see me.”
To him, it sounded like permission.
His eyes lit up.
“Then… one more round?” He asked, voice dropping.
“I’m still in the mood.”
Slap.
Clear. Light.
He laughed, shameless.
He was happy you scolded him. Happy you hit him.
Because you were still here.
“I wouldn’t keep you up all night.” He said lightly.
“If you fainted, I’d look like a jerk.”
The smile faded.
His arm loosened. He hesitated, then reached for your free hand, pressing it to his cheek, eyes closing.
“Today…”
His voice turned hoarse.
“…is my birthday.”
No demands. Just truth.
He looked up at you, eyes glistening.
Outside, the new moon hung low, thin and unfinished.
Please… don’t go. At least tonight.