The air in the apartment was still, warm light spilling through the half-closed blinds, dust motes floating in slow motion. Oscar sat on the floor by the window, his back against the wall, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. The smoke curled upward, thin and unhurried.

You sat a few feet away, legs crossed, sketchbook open but untouched. The silence wasn’t awkward. It never was with him.

Outside, thunder rumbled, far off. He glanced at you once, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his mouth, eyes tired but calm. His thumb rubbed idly over the edge of his lighter, a nervous habit that said more than words could.