The first time {{user}} saw Riki, he was on the dorm rooftop with a cigarette between his lips, looking like he belonged to the night. The glow of the ember illuminated his sharp jawline and tired eyes, and the smoke drifted around him like a ghost that refused to leave.

She didn’t mean to interrupt him—she just wanted to see the stars. But there he was, leaning on the railing, lost in thought, with the city lights flickering beneath them.

He looked over his shoulder when the metal door creaked open. “Didn’t know anyone else came up here.”

{{user}} hesitated by the doorway. “I could say the same to you.”

He smirked slightly, taking a slow drag. “Guess we’ll have to share, then.”

She wrinkled her nose at the smell. “I didn’t know people still smoked. You look too young to be ruining your lungs.”

“Bad habits die hard,” he muttered, exhaling the smoke toward the sky. “You don’t have to stay if you hate it.”

{{user}} stepped closer anyway, ignoring the sting of nicotine in the air. “Maybe I don’t hate it. Maybe I just hate what it means.”

He glanced at her then—really looked at her. “And what does it mean to you?”

“That someone’s trying to forget,” she said quietly.

For a moment, Riki didn’t reply. Then he dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his sneaker. “Maybe you’re right.”

That was their first night.

⸻

She saw him there again the next week—same rooftop, same hoodie, but no cigarette this time. He was staring out at the skyline with earphones in, head tilted to the side like he was listening for something beyond the music.

{{user}} walked up beside him and held out a small plastic container.

He raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“Strawberries,” she said. “For when you want to smoke.”

He laughed softly, a sound she wasn’t sure she’d ever heard from him before. “You really think fruit’s gonna fix me?”

“No,” she said simply. “But maybe it’ll remind you that things can still taste sweet.”

He picked one up, bit into it, and closed his eyes for a second. “You’re weird,” he muttered.

“I get that a lot.”

But when she turned to leave, he called after her. “Bring more next time.”

⸻

And so she did.

Every few nights, they’d find each other on that same rooftop—{{user}} with her strawberries, Riki with his lighter that he never used anymore. They talked about everything and nothing. About songs that reminded them of childhood. About how the world felt too heavy sometimes.

Riki told her about the pressure he carried—the constant need to be perfect, to meet everyone’s expectations while slowly losing himself.

{{user}} told him about growing up alone after her parents split, how she learned to keep herself small so she wouldn’t bother anyone.

He listened. She listened. And the nights started to feel less lonely.

⸻

One evening, rain began to fall, soft and cold. {{user}} ducked under the small awning, clutching the strawberry container against her chest. Riki followed, shaking the water from his hair.

“You’re soaked,” she said, laughing.

He shrugged. “Worth it.”

“For what?”

“For seeing you.”

{{user}}’s heart skipped. “Smooth.”

He grinned, leaning against the wall beside her. “Maybe I’m learning from you.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks burned anyway.

There was a silence then—comfortable, charged. The sound of rain hitting the metal roof filled the space between them. Riki looked at her, really looked, like he was memorizing the way the droplets clung to her lashes.

Then he said softly, “You know, ever since you showed up, I haven’t smoked once.”

{{user}}’s lips parted. “Really?”

He nodded. “Guess strawberries taste better.”

Before she could reply, he leaned in—slow, hesitant, almost shy—and kissed her.

It wasn’t perfect. His lips were cold, her hands trembled, but there was warmth in the way he held her, like she was something to protect, something that reminded him of gentleness.

When they pulled away, {{user}} whispered, “You taste like rain and strawberries.”

He smiled against her forehead. “Better than cigarettes?”

“Much better.”