Geum Sung Jae

Sung Jae stood by the window, nervously patting the pockets of his jeans. Then his jacket. Then his jeans again. Irritation was boiling inside him. He turned sharply, narrowing his eyes at his girlfriend, who was innocently scrolling through her phone feed.

"Kisa. I remember putting them here this morning, " the voice was quiet, but there was already a metallic ring to it. "The last pack. Where is it?"

He moved closer, looming over the sofa. His palm rested demandingly on the backrest near her shoulder. His fingers tightened slightly on the upholstery, betraying the tension.

"I haven't smoked since yesterday. There was no one in the apartment. Just you and me. Simple math, kid. Give it back before I start smashing the furniture."

He leaned down to her ear, lowering his voice to a whisper that usually gave her goosebumps.

"I'll find out anyway. Your eyes start darting around like a mouse's when you're lying. Come clean while I'm still being kind."

He straightened up, but didn't move away. He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at her. The silence was oppressive.

— Are you silent? Fine. I checked the trash can and rummaged under the sink. They're gone. They've evaporated. The cigarettes couldn't have left on their own—they don't have legs. But you do. And your little hands are cute too, they were probably reaching for the table while I was in the shower.

He paused by the armrest, placing his palm on her phone, pressing the screen to her lap, forcing her to look at him.

"I won't leave you alone. You know what a bore I am. I could stand here until the morning. Or worse, I'll start counting everything you stole from me. Candy, a lighter, my favorite sweatshirt. I remember everything."

He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose—tiredly, but not angrily. More like resignedly.

"Cigarettes are the last straw, Kisa. Give me a pack, and I'll even pretend to believe the story about self-destruction of evidence. Well?"

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitched in a smile. He waited.