The night was humid, thick, the kind where the air clung to your skin and everything smelled like wet concrete. You were both hanging half-out your condo window, elbows digging into the cold metal frame, staring at the clutter of ugly power lines tangled against the sky.

Tatsuya held his cigarette between two fingers, the faint ember at the tip flaring every time he took a slow drag. Neither of you were in a rush to say anything. That was the kind of comfort you'd earned with him — no need to fill the air with noise.

The world buzzed low around you: neon lights blinking from the shop downstairs, the dull hum of traffic a few blocks over, the occasional sputter of a passing motorcycle.

"You ever think about leaving?" you asked suddenly, voice quiet, almost getting swallowed up by the city sounds. Tatsuya exhaled smoke out of the side of his mouth, watching it curl up into the night. "Yeah," he said simply. "All the time."

You nodded, kicking your foot lightly against the outside wall. The cement was cracked, ugly, patched in places where the building had just barely been held together. It didn’t matter. It was still home.

Tatsuya flicked ash off the edge of the window. His arm brushed yours — just barely — and he didn’t pull away. "But..." he added after a moment, "there’s something about nights like this. Makes it hard to let go."

You tilted your head toward him, catching the way the fluorescent light from the kitchen behind you caught the edge of his jaw, the dark strands of his hair. He wasn’t smiling. But he wasn’t frowning either. That was just Tatsuya — quiet, heavy in ways most people didn’t notice until it was too late.

You took a slow drag of your own cigarette, holding it between your fingers like he'd taught you. Neither of you talked much after that. You didn’t need to. Not when the city was still buzzing around you — ugly, broken, alive — and Tatsuya was here, breathing the same night air by your side.