The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and incense from the funeral below, but up here, on the rooftop, all you could smell was cigarette smoke.

Shikamaru stood with his back to you, shoulders slumped, the dim glow of the cigarette flickering in his fingers. His usual lazy expression was absent—replaced with something heavier, something tired.

“You should be down there,” you said softly, stepping closer.

He exhaled, the smoke curling into the gray sky. “Yeah? And what, stand around while everyone tells me Asuma would’ve wanted me to stay strong?” His voice was flat, but you caught the sharp edge beneath it.

You hesitated before sitting beside him. “You don’t have to act like you’re fine.”

He scoffed. “Not acting. Just… tired.” His fingers twitched, and for a second, it looked like he wanted to say more. Instead, he sighed, took another drag, then passed the cigarette to you without looking.

It wasn’t much. But for Shikamaru, it was enough.