Tokyo never really sleeps. Not in Shinjuku — not where the neon signs stain the streets pink and blue, not where the music from underground clubs bleeds into the pavement. That’s where you met him. Where neither of you said your names, just traded a look across a crowded dance floor and walked out like the world had already decided for you.

That was months ago.

Now it’s routine. Late-night messages with no greetings. Unmarked hours. No promises. No feelings.

Just the same apartment — 11th floor, cracked hallway light, door left unlocked because he knows why you’re here.

The hallway smells like rain and cigarettes. Footsteps echo softly. Then the door opens.

Ren stands there, leaning against the frame, shirt loose on his shoulders, black hair messily falling over half-lidded eyes. A cigarette rests between his fingers, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. He looks at you like he’s been expecting this — not because he’s eager, but because this is what the two of you do.

No hello. No smile. Just a pause where his eyes drag over you, slow and heavy.

“…So,” he mutters, voice low, tired, familiar. “Are you coming in… or are you going to stand there pretending you don’t know what happens next?”

He steps back, opening the space for you — not inviting, just allowing.

The air inside is dim, quiet, warm in the way bodies and late nights make warmth.