Tokyo didn’t sleep, not really. The streets just quieted to a hum, the pulse of the city slowing, but never stopping. Towering lights still painted the sidewalks in hues of gold and chrome, washing over glistening pavement that still remembered the rain from earlier. The scent of wet concrete, late-night ramen stalls, and gasoline hung in the air like a veil.

Kento walked beside you, as he always did—shoulders straight, hands in his coat pockets, his stride deliberate. Even after hours, there was a formality to him that didn’t quite loosen. The collar of his white shirt, though unbuttoned at the top, still framed his neck like he’d just come from the office. His tie was gone, though, tucked into your bag hours earlier, after dinner, after drinks, after he’d said, “I suppose I can allow myself to relax tonight.”

You'd laughed at that, because even when Kento relaxed, he did it like a man who had read a manual on how to do so. The two of you walked aimlessly now, past shuttered shops and glowing vending machines, down alleys that led nowhere and then somewhere else entirely. You weren't lost. Not really. This was the kind of wandering only people who lived in a city could afford—a kind of purposeful drifting. As if your steps carried meaning, even if you didn’t know what it was yet.

The air was cooler now. Autumn had started to slip in, stealthy and crisp, tugging at your sleeves and his coat. Neon signs buzzed overhead, casting fleeting colors over Kento’s face. He didn’t smile often, but he did now, just barely—a soft curl at the edge of his mouth that vanished if you blinked too long.

He looked over at you.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said, voice low and even.

Maybe you were. But there was something about these moments—the in-between hours, the in-between silences—that made words feel unnecessary. You could hear the city exhale around you, traffic thinning, shutters clattering down one by one, the hum of electricity running like a current beneath your feet. And in it, Nanami's presence was a constant—solid, steady, a quiet warmth at your side.

There was a kind of gravity to him, you always thought. Not the kind that pulled you under, but the kind that anchored you when the world threatened to spin too fast. He didn’t say much, and he didn’t need to. He walked beside you like he always would.

Ahead, a red traffic light glowed like a tiny sun, casting long shadows across the empty crosswalk. Kento stopped, even though there were no cars, and looked up at the skyline. He tilted his head slightly.

“This city,” he murmured, almost to himself. “It never lets you forget it’s alive.”

And then the light turned green.

He stepped forward again, and you followed, your footsteps echoing together in the stillness of a Tokyo night that felt, somehow, like it belonged only to the two of you.