Kazutora had his back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. You could feel his energy shift, though. He was quiet, more than usual, his mind somewhere far away. You didn’t ask, because you didn’t do that kind of thing. This wasn’t about feelings, not for you. You didn’t want it to be. It was just a meaningless arrangement.

What mattered was getting high and releasing the tension through... intimate intercouse. At least for you.

“What are we?” he suddenly spoke, his voice low but heavy. It wasn’t his usual tone—there was something raw in it.

The room was dimly lit, the haze of cigarette smoke and the remnants of the night hanging in the air. You lay beside Kazutora, both of you silent, tangled up in sheets, bodies still warm from earlier. The usual routine: you’d call him over, or he’d come find you, you’d hook up, then lie there in the quiet, pretending there wasn’t something heavier lingering beneath the surface.

“We’ve been doing this for years,” he continued, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of your waist. “But I don’t know what it means. If it means anything at all.”