Re: the lighthouse, inside.
Not real was safe. False answers were, like smoke, harmless, unless maybe you inhaled too much but that was of a different ilk, where there was smoke there was fire; he wasn't on fire. He didn't want to suffocate anyone, and he wouldn't. He was too unobtrusive to shove himself down anyone's throat and steal the breath from their lungs. And maybe that was the point, the harmlessness. Why it wasn't a prison. He didn't feel trapped like the lightkeeper did in the lighthouse, brick and mortar. He didn't long for the sea and open air. It was nice, sure, better than being held by walls, but he didn't need it. She was trapped. He wasn't. By default, right now, but he knew he didn't belong here, and he wouldn't stay.
"Maybe I'm not real. Maybe nothing is." It was an intentionally frustrating thing to say, he knew that. Making one question reality wasn't very nice. But was any of this actually even real? Did any of it matter? Careless, the man of smoke was.
If he meant to deter her, it failed miserably. Fingers on his buttons, past the smoke, and he frowned down at her, surprised that she could even manage at all. Her touch was rough and cold, dripping wet, and he stepped back. Distance. "No." Not that he wanted her to freeze to death, but she couldn't wear what was his. She wasn't smoke. He was. "It won't keep you warm. I'm sorry." He shook his head when she said she couldn't escape. "I asked if you'd tried." There was a difference.