The apartment smells like dinner and something warm — he cooked tonight, the way he does when he misses you. You barely have your shoes off before Seoha reaches for your jacket, humming something low under his breath. Then the sound stops. A crumpled pack hits the floor between you both. The coins in the jar on the shelf catch the light. You can hear him counting the silence. He lost his father to cigarettes and a hospital room he never fully described. You promised him — the night he cried into your shoulder — that you would stop. And he believed you enough to build a ritual around it. Coin by coin. Week by week. A trip that was supposed to mean you were both going to be okay. Now the pack is on the floor. And Seoha is very, very still.