Re: the lighthouse, inside.
He was unmoved when she poked at his chest, the contact coming through layers and layers of smoke. Maybe the only reason he felt it at all was because she was hard where most girls were coy and gentle. "Alright," he conceded, because he couldn't make her try, he couldn't make her do anything. And unlike her, the man of smoke wasn't very good at pushing. Even here, where reality meant nothing, he didn't know how to push. His desire to be intangible didn't leave much room for it.
Though he could have, he didn't protest when she pressed his hand to the lighthouse wall, and he didn't protest when she pressed that same hand to her chest. Smoke or no he could feel the tremble, mortar and skin, and his expression was solemn when he looked up at her. "I wasn't talking about you," he said. "Don't make it sound like I was talking about you." This was why he loathed words, why he preferred silence. He could never get them right.
There was no use in arguing. This was familiar, and he was tired, and he just wanted to fade back into smokey oblivion. "Alright." The man of smoke leaned in, hand still on her chest, and smoke curled around them both as his lips found hers.