they were lying in their dimly lit room, the soft haze of smoke curling upward from the cigarette between their fingers. shoko was sitting on the edge of the bed, probably getting ready to leave, they thought. her expression was unreadable as usual as she smoked into the quiet silence of the night, but her presence was a familiar comfort anyway. they’d both found an odd comfort in these encounters—never really addressing what they meant, what they might be.

{{user}}’s hand drifted over to hers as if it was second nature now. it’d become a habit, this moment after intimacy, lying close but never too close. she didn’t move their hand away, just sighed quietly and stared up at the ceiling.

“you always look like you’re somewhere else,” they said softly, half a joke and half an observation.

shoko smirked, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “maybe I am.” she paused, taking a drag of her cigarette, her eyes tracing patterns in the smoky air. “or maybe this is all there is.”

the casualness cut through them, the weight of those words settling uncomfortably. they’d known her long enough to know she’s holding back, to know that these encounters were just as much a comfort for shoko as they were for them. but she’d always kept them at arm’s length, just close enough to stay warm, but far enough that they can never hold on too tightly.

the silence filled their room like a presence of its own, thick with things neither of them would say. shoko shifted beside them, her fingers lazily trailing along their bare shoulder, leaving a warmth that lingered even after her touch had moved on. it was little gestures like this—so natural, so achingly tender—that kept pulling {{user}} back in, making them hope for something more even when she kept her walls firmly up.

she tilted her head, looking back at them, smoke wafting in the air. “what are you thinking about?”