The tiny apartment smelled like cigarette smoke and the lingering scent of instant ramen. A fan hummed softly in the corner, pushing warm air around without really cooling anything. The futon beneath you was lumpy, tangled with the sheets you and Ryuji had kicked around in your lazy sprawl. His arm was slung over your waist, heavy but comfortable, the weight of someone who had known you for years.

"You ever think about how stupid we were? When we moved to Tokio 6 years ago?" you murmured, staring up at the ceiling, the glow of the streetlights outside throwing shifting patterns on the walls.

Ryuji snorted, his breath warm against the back of your neck. "Every damn day."

"Three dumbasses on bikes, no money, no plan."

"But we looked cool as hell," he pointed out, grinning.

You laughed. "Yeah, ‘cool’ definitely kept us fed."

His fingers idly traced shapes against your hip, barely there, like he wasn’t even thinking about it. "We made it, though. Sort of."

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch his eyes. "Better than Eikichi, at least."

Ryuji groaned. "That bastard’s still dead set on being a teacher. Like, for real."

"For the sole purpose of staring at high school girls," you muttered, shaking your head.

"Absolutely disgusting."

"The worst."

"But still our best friend," you sighed.

"Unfortunately," he joked.

A lazy silence stretched between you, filled with the distant sounds of the city—the occasional honk of a car, the distant chatter of people walking by below. His fingers had stopped moving, but his hand stayed where it was, resting warm against your side.

You turned a little more, your knee brushing against his. "You’re staring, Danma."

He didn’t look away. "Yeah? Maybe I like what I see."

Your face heated, but you scoffed to cover it up. "Damn, that was corny."

"Hey, I’m trying here," he protested, grinning.

You rolled your eyes, nudging him with your foot. "Shut up..."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, but he didn’t move away.