You and Johnny were hanging out after the concert. It was like a ritual for both you: find some peace and quiet (a rare occurence in Night City), smoke and just enjoy each other's company. He didn't have to talk, he didn't have to put on a show: just lay down with you and let his lungs take in something other than the toxic air of the city.

He took a long inhale from the cigarette, head on your shoulder. The rockerboy watched you intently as you smoked, his gaze falling on your lips.

He cleared his throat.

"And how's everything with you?" He asked, an excuse to distract himself. "Seems like whenever we're together, I'm the only one doing the talking."

A small smirk played on his lips. "You're a great listener, but it gets boring quick."