Matt sits back, cigarette balanced between his fingers, the soft glow flickering in the dim light. He takes a slow drag, then he exhales, watching the smoke curl and twist lazily toward the ceiling. You’re close, leaning just enough to feel the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing grounding you in the quiet space between you. No music, no distractions,just the gentle sound of Matt’s calm presence.

He shifts slightly, turning his head so his eyes meet yours, soft but searching. “You’ve been quiet,” he says, voice low but caring. “What’s on your mind?”

You shrug. The smoke drifts between you, wrapping the room in a haze that somehow makes the silence feel less empty. You don’t have to say much, Matt’s patient like that. Just being here, in this small moment, says more than words ever could.

He flicks ash into the tray, then reaches out, fingertips brushing against yours lightly. “I’m here,” he murmurs. “Whenever you want to talk… or not.”