The windows were cracked just enough for the smoke to drift out into the cool night air. You and Heeseung had done this a dozen times before—late-night drives where you’d vent while he lit up, never judging, just listening. It became your quiet routine, your escape.

His playlist played low in the background—soft R&B mixing with mellow hip-hop—while the streetlights bathed the car in a warm, flickering glow. You curled your legs up in the passenger seat, eyes following the slow dance of smoke between his fingers before he passed it to you.

Heeseung didn’t talk much when he was high, just shot you that calm, hazy glance—the kind that said he was present, even if he didn’t speak. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It never was. It was the kind of quiet you grew to crave.

“Peaceful, huh?” He muttered finally, voice low and smooth.