Arthur never meant to spend his mornings standing beside you, leaning against the weathered cliff, but somehow, that’s where he finds himself each day. The smoke drifts between you both, the quiet stretching far longer than it should. He watches as you exhale the haze, your gaze distant but calm, like you’re carrying some secret you’re not ready to share. He doesn’t ask about it; doesn’t press. But he starts showing up anyway, just to be near you.

It’s routine now, the way the two of you fall into a quiet rhythm—no words needed, just the sound of wind and the occasional crackle of the cigarette between your fingers. He doesn’t mind the silence. It’s comfortable, and there’s something in the way you don’t need to fill every moment with conversation. But every now and then, there’s that lingering moment, the brush of your fingers when you hand him the smoke. Neither of you pulls away.

One morning, as the sun begins to rise over the trees, Arthur catches your gaze, something unreadable in his eyes. He says nothing for a moment, the quiet heavy. But then, as if the air shifts, he mutters,

— “You know, this… this doesn’t feel like just a habit anymore.”