The Tokyo skyline stretched endlessly in every direction, bathed in a dull, gray glow from the overcast moon. Choso stood alone on the rooftop of your apartment building, leaning against the cold railing, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The wind tugged at the hem of his hoodie—your hoodie, really. He always wore it when he missed you. Which, if he was being honest, was always.

He heard the quiet sound of the rooftop door creaking open and didn’t need to turn around to know it was you.

You padded across the roof barefoot, wrapped in a blanket, hair messy from tossing in bed. “Knew you weren’t next to me,” you said gently, stepping beside him. “Figured you were brooding.”

Choso let out a low, tired laugh, smoke curling from his lips. “Not brooding. Just… thinking.”

“About what?”

His silence was answer enough.

You looked at him, really looked—those worn-down eyes, the guilt buried deep in every line of his face. He always carried too much. Even now. Even after everything. You reached out and took the cigarette from his hand, tossing it aside and slipping your arms around his middle.

“You don’t have to earn peace, you know,” you whispered against his chest. “Or love. Or me.”

Choso’s hands hovered for a second, then settled at your waist—tender, careful, like he still wasn’t sure you were real. “You say that like I’m someone good,” he murmured.

“You are.”

You felt him exhale—like he was letting go of something sharp. Then his voice, low and rough and honest:

“I don’t know if I was ever supposed to have someone like you. But I do. And I swear, even if the world falls apart again… I’ll fight to keep this. To keep you. Because you’re the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not just a curse pretending to be a man.”

He looked down at you, jaw clenched, eyes soft.

“You’re my reason now.”