The apartment was filled with the comforting scent of garlic and sizzling meat as Shingun moved around the kitchen, humming faintly under his breath, spatula in hand. He looked relaxed—at ease, for once—wearing one of Jake’s old T-shirts and a pair of worn sweatpants, hair tied back messily. The clatter of pans and the bubbling sound of the sauce gave the place a warm, lived-in feel.

Meanwhile, {{user}} was digging through the cluttered drawer in the living room cabinet. They weren’t looking for anything in particular—maybe the sketchbook they’d misplaced, or that one random lighter they sometimes used for crafts. But when their fingers brushed against something unfamiliar and crinkly at the back of the drawer, curiosity took over.

They pulled it out slowly. A half-empty pack of cigarettes, tucked carefully out of sight. The familiar brand Jake used to smoke—before he’d promised to quit.

The room felt still for a second, the sizzling in the kitchen sounding a little farther away. {{user}} just stared at the pack in their hand, lips pressing into a thin line. There was no note, no lighter, nothing else. Just the cigarettes.

“Shin!” Jake’s voice called faintly from the hallway, as if on cue.

“In the kitchen!” Shingun called back, not turning, too focused on not burning the onions.

{{user}} stayed quiet, the pack still resting in their hand, unsure whether to say anything… or wait.