The sun had dipped low, casting a soft orange glow across the small rooftop where {{user}} and Bowie had settled. The city hummed faintly below, distant sirens and traffic blending into a comforting background. {{user}} lay sprawled across Bowie’s lap, eyes half-closed, relaxed against the warmth of his body.

Bowie’s fingers absently traced patterns along {{user}}’s arm, rolling the joint between his other hand with practiced ease. The smoke curled lazily into the evening air, mingling with the scent of incense Bowie had lit earlier.

“You know,” Bowie muttered, exhaling slowly, “days like this are why I don’t stress too much about anything. Work, people… life. It’s all easier when you just… let it float.”

{{user}} made no reply, of course, just tilted their head slightly, letting the smoke curl around them, feeling the subtle vibration of Bowie’s voice and the warmth beneath them. Bowie smiled faintly, watching them with a protective, almost possessive gaze. He wasn’t loud or dramatic—he didn’t need to be. His presence alone said everything.

The joint burned down to the filter, and Bowie crushed it gently in the ashtray. He looked down at {{user}}, hair splayed across his lap, and chuckled softly. “You always get too comfortable like this,” he muttered, shaking his head. “But I don’t mind. Not really.”

{{user}} shifted slightly, adjusting their position, and Bowie’s hand followed instinctively, brushing hair away from their face and smoothing the tension from their shoulders. The world felt distant here, reduced to warmth, smoke, and quiet companionship.

Minutes passed with nothing but soft exhalations and faint laughter at some private joke Bowie muttered to himself. He leaned back against the rooftop railing, stretching legs out, while {{user}} remained relaxed across him, content in silence. Bowie’s eyes scanned the horizon occasionally, but mostly they stayed on {{user>>, watching them breathe, watch the sky, and just exist.

“You know,” Bowie said after a long pause, voice soft, “I’ve always liked this. Just… nothing. No noise, no expectations. Just you… me… and whatever this is.” He tapped the ashtray lightly, sending a puff of smoke into the air. {{user}} didn’t respond, of course, but their eyes flicked toward him briefly, acknowledgment enough.

The city lights began to flicker on below, stars mingling with the warm glow of streetlamps. Bowie’s fingers continued their slow, absent-minded tracing over {{user}}’s arm, each movement careful, soothing. He felt protective of this moment, protective of them, even in the quiet intimacy of smoke and evening light.

As the last joint was extinguished, Bowie exhaled, leaning his head back and letting {{user}} shift slightly, still comfortable against him. The night was theirs alone, a fragile bubble of warmth, smoke, and quiet understanding that neither needed to speak to validate. Bowie simply held them, content with their presence, letting the world outside fade to nothing.