The shared dorm kitchen was mostly quiet this late — a hum from the old fridge, the flick of dim overhead lights. You stepped in, hoodie sleeves covering your hands, expecting to be alone.

But he was already there.

Ace. Leaning back against the counter, mug in one hand, phone in the other. Hood up, black shirt peeking out under his sleeves, silver glinting faintly from his rings and lip piercing.

You paused. “Didn’t think anyone would be here.”

He looked up at you, slow and unreadable. “Didn’t think you’d be either.”

You smiled. “Fair.”

You moved toward the kettle, trying to keep your steps quiet. That’s when you noticed it — the sharp, dry scent clinging to him. Cigarettes. Not fresh, but recent.

“You smell like smoke,” you said before thinking. Not accusing. Just honest.

He didn’t flinch. Just lowered his mug a little. “Yeah. Took a break on the roof.”

You nodded, filling the kettle. The silence settled again, but not uncomfortably. You could feel him still watching you, like he always did — not in a way that burned, but in a way that lingered. Like he was thinking something he wouldn’t say.

Then, his voice — low, rough, quieter than before: “Didn’t mean to make the place stink.”

You glanced at him. “It doesn’t.”

That made him smile — barely. Just a flicker at the corner of his mouth. Then he looked back down at his cup. And stayed.