You’ve done this before.

Late nights and lo-fi, slow music. The slow, lazy pass of a joint between you and Suguru Geto like it’s routine. Like this is just what you do together. He never rushes you. Never pushes. But he’s always close—closer than a friend should be.

And tonight feels no different. His apartment is dim, the soft hum of a playlist you both pretend not to care about filling the silence. He sits across from you, stretched out on the couch, his long hair half-tied, sleeves shoved up, and that same unreadable calm painted across his face.

You’re not sure when you started craving this—the haze, the heat, him—but now you do.

“Want another hit?” he asks, his voice low, smooth, like it always is.

You nod, and when his fingers brush yours as he passes the joint, it lingers. You don’t pull away.

There’s always something about the way Suguru looks at you—steady, knowing, just a little too long. He’s careful, though. He never says too much. Never calls you anything you could hold onto. More than a friend and yet, less than a lover.

He leans forward suddenly, resting his elbows on his knees, watching you with that soft, dangerous curiosity.

“Shotgun?” he asks, but it feels like more than just a question about smoke.