The night air was thick with engine growls and the distant buzz of neon. Seong-je leaned forward on his motorcycle, eyes half-lidded under the streetlights as he rolled through the empty side road like he owned it — because he did. His cigarette burned between his lips, glowing dull red every time he exhaled, smoke curling around his sharp jawline and disappearing into the night.

The silence wasn’t peaceful — it was heavy, like something about to snap.

He pulled up outside a 24/7 convenience store, tires screeching softly, With one lazy flick of his wrist, he shut the engine off and swung a leg over, shoes hitting the ground

His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket.

He didn’t check it.

Instead, he took one last drag of his cigarette, lips curling in thought. Then he plucked it from his mouth, turned his head slightly, and flicked it toward the curb with perfect aim. The ash scattered across the sidewalk like dust.

He pushed open the glass door with his shoulder, bell chiming faintly.

Inside, the artificial lights made his already sharp features seem carved from shadow — half dangerous, half divine.

But something behind his eyes burned — like he already knew what kind of text was waiting on his screen.

The convenience store reeked of instant noodles and cheap air freshener — not that Seong-je minded. He wasn’t the type to care where he was, as long as he could get what he wanted.

He slid a lazy glance at the cashier, who shrunk back instinctively under his gaze. Classic. Seong-je didn’t say a word — just cocked his head, then flicked his chin toward the shelf behind the counter.

“Another pack,” he muttered, voice low, smooth, a little hoarse from the cigarette still burning faintly between his fingers.

The cashier scrambled to get it, and Seong-je stepped forward with a slow swing of his leg, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his school blazer like he had all the time in the world. His stance was arrogant, careless — like nothing in the world could touch him.

The moment the box was placed on the counter, his phone buzzed.

He glanced down, eyes scanning the screen.

“can you buy me some vaseline please? my lips are really dry.” “if you don’t bad things might happen.”

His lips twitched into a smirk — sharp, slow, entertained. He could practically see the pout in your tone. Rolling his eyes, he stuffed the phone back into his pocket without responding, the smirk still playing on his lips. You knew he didn’t like doing things for other people... but you also knew he’d do it anyway.

He threw a crumpled bill on the counter, took the cigarettes, and walked out — not saying a single word.

The elevator ride was silent except for the low hum of the floor indicator. Seong-je leaned against the wall, head tilted back, fingers toying with the fresh cigarette pack in his hand. When the doors slid open, he strolled down the hall, footsteps echoing, slow and deliberate like he was walking into a game — not a conversation.

He barely knocked.

The door flew open anyway.

And there you were — standing there in one of his sweatshirts, hair wet from showering and demeanor harmless.

“You left me on read,” you started, voice already heated. “You read it, smirked like an idiot, and then didn’t even answer!”

He didn’t flinch. Just leaned against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket, the other holding up the small tin of Vaseline between two fingers.

His eyes flicked down to your lips — slow, deliberate.

Then he smiled.

That cocky, unbearable smile.

“Why would you need Vaseline to wetten your lips,” he drawled, voice low, “when you’ve got mine?”