The fire escape was cold under my palms, metal biting through the thin fabric of my sleeves. Below us, the city breathed — sirens far away, traffic humming like a restless animal — but up here, everything slowed.

Yichen stood a step away from me, cigarette balanced between his fingers, the ember flaring softly each time he inhaled. The smoke curled around his face, catching in his hair, clinging to him like a second skin. I told myself I was only watching because of the view. I lied.

“You’re staring,” he said quietly, not turning.

“So are you,” I replied.

He finally looked at me then, eyes dark, unreadable, the kind that always felt like they were seeing too much. The red light from the emergency lamp washed over us, softer than the club’s glow, more honest somehow. It made his mouth look dangerous. It made me reckless.

He exhaled smoke slowly, deliberately, and I felt it pass between us like a dare.

“Ziyu,” he said — my name landing low, careful. “If you keep looking at me like that, I might forget how to behave.”

I laughed under my breath, but it came out thin. “You never behave.”

That did it. He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell smoke and soap and something unmistakably him. He didn’t touch me — not yet — but his presence pressed in all the same, heat without contact.

The silence stretched. My pulse filled it.

“Say the word,” he murmured. “And I’ll stop.”

I should have said it. I knew that. Instead, I reached up and took the cigarette from his hand, crushed it out against the rail, and let it fall.

His breath caught — just barely — but I felt it like a victory.

When he kissed me, it was slow, almost careful, like he was memorizing rather than taking. His hand came to my waist, warm, steady, grounding me there on the edge of the city. I kissed him back with everything I hadn’t said all night, all week, all the moments we’d danced around this instead of stepping into it.

We broke apart only when we had to breathe.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The city kept moving below us, unaware that something had shifted above it.

“This changes things,” I said softly.

Yichen smiled — not sharp, not playful, but real. “Yeah,” he answered. “I was hoping you’d notice.”

And under the red emergency light, with smoke still clinging to our clothes, I realized some fires don’t burn loud. Some just stay — quiet, steady — right where your heart can’t ignore them.