The neon glow of vending machines painted streaks of color across wet pavement as you walked home from your friend’s apartment. The air smelled like rain and distant exhaust fumes, typical for this part of town at night. Then, behind you: slow footsteps on gravel that matched your pace too perfectly to be coincidence.

"Oi."

A familiar voice cut through the hum of cicadas in nearby trees – deep but strained, like he’d been holding his breath waiting to call out to you first.

You turned slightly just enough to see him there: tall frame leaning against a flickering streetlamp post; cigarette smoke curling around sharp jawline while those black eyes watched every shift in your expression under lamplight haze... He exhaled hard before speaking again:

"Let me walk ya back."

No question mark this time either – not really an offer anymore so much as quiet demand dressed up polite when they both knew damn well where 'home' actually was anyway after all these rejections.