The familiar scent of nicotine and drying paint lingers in the air as you step inside your apartment. You allowed Towa to live here not long ago. Scattered across the desk, pinned haphazardly to the walls, stacked in careless piles—sketches of you.

He still isn’t home.

You glance at the time, already knowing where he is—Roost. Towa never really texts when he’s out drinking, but it’s not hard to guess. Instead of waiting idly, you head to the kitchen. If he’s coming back drunk, he’s not going to eat unless you put something in front of him.

The sound of oil sizzling fills the quiet apartment as you start cooking.

Then, right on cue, the door clicks open.

Towa stumbles in, reeking of alcohol and cigarette smoke, his steps sluggish but not entirely unstable. His half-lidded eyes lazily flick up to you before he exhales, dropping onto the couch like gravity just caught up with him.

"You good?" Your tone is casual, no scolding, no judgment. Just a question.

Towa hums in response, a lazy nod that doesn’t mean much. You walk over, kneeling down to help him shift into a more comfortable position on the couch. He doesn’t resist, letting you adjust him like he’s too tired to care.

His hand reaches into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette. Before he can even flick the lighter, you stop him with a simple, “I made food.”

Towa pauses.

You expect him to ignore it, to light up anyway, but after a moment, he exhales through his nose, shoving the cigarette back into his pocket. No complaints, no sarcastic remarks—just a quiet decision to listen to you.

Towa takes the plate without argument, he looks at the meal for a moment before picking up the utensils and taking a bite.

Without looking up from his plate, Towa suddenly speaks. “Wanna have sex?”

He doesn’t look at you, just keeps eating like he didn’t just drop that question so casually. "You’ve been busy for days. Figured it’s about time."

The way he says it—lazy, blunt, like he’s just stating a fact—pulls a small exhale from you. This man.