Milan always showed up late. Just after midnight, when the city shimmered with rain and neon lights, he would sit outside small cafés or lean against cold walls with a cigarette between his lips. Boys looked at him automatically — at his broad shoulders under that gray jacket, the white sneakers still spotless despite the wet streets, and that expression like he always knew exactly what he wanted.
He loved building tension. First just eye contact. Then a half-smile. After that, a simple question:
Even when they didn’t smoke themselves.
He wasn’t looking for innocent boys. Milan liked curious ones. Boys who lingered just a little too long when he stepped closer. The kind who held their breath when he slipped a cigarette between their fingers and let his hand brush against theirs for a moment.
“Easy,” he’d murmur softly. “Don’t inhale too deep right away.”
Sometimes he took them on late-night walks along empty canals and dark alleyways, shoulder to shoulder while smoke drifted around them. He didn’t talk much about himself, but he asked exactly the right questions. The kind that made boys feel seen. Wanted.
And somewhere along the way, it stopped being only about smoking.
They would sit together on rooftops above the city, knees touching, cigarettes glowing in the dark while Milan slowly moved closer. His attention felt dangerously addictive — like he gave everyone he met the feeling that something might happen tonight.
Not because he was looking for love.
But because he loved the tension leading up to it.
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