The restaurant was one of those quiet, tucked-away places that always smelled like old grease and pickled ginger.

Warm lighting, cracked vinyl booths, and a small TV in the corner playing some ancient sitcom on mute. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t even particularly good.

But it was quiet. And that was enough.

You and Himeno sat across from each other, shoulders slouched, coats tossed into the seat beside you.

The table between you was already cluttered—half-empty beer glasses, dipping sauce bowls, skewers picked clean. After a shift like that, even bad food felt like a luxury.

Himeno looked different out of uniform. Still sharp, still confident—but softer, too. Hair loose. Eyes tired in a way you understood all too well.

You’d both laughed more than usual tonight. Not the empty kind that came after bloodbaths. Real laughs. The kind that left a small ache in your ribs and made the drinks go down smoother.

Then she reached into her coat pocket. Pulled out a cigarette. Flicked it between two fingers.

“This is for you,” she said, grinning as she pointed the tip at you like a challenge. “I have a feeling we’ll be teammates for a long time.”

She leaned forward a little, resting her elbow on the table, her eyes locked on yours with a mix of mischief and sincerity.

“I really hope you can smoke.”

She puckered her lips dramatically into a pout, waving the cigarette closer with mock impatience. A teasing little performance—but underneath the act, there was something real.

A small offering. A ritual. Her way of saying we’re in this together now.

The smoke between devil hunters was more than just nicotine. It was trust. A breath shared between those who might not have another tomorrow.

You took the cigarette from her fingers. She smiled—slow and warm.

“Atta boy,” she murmured, flicking her lighter with a practiced snap and leaning forward to light it for you.

The flame danced between your faces for a moment, caught in the quiet. Then you both leaned back, smoke curling in lazy spirals toward the stained ceiling.

She clinked her glass to yours. “To staying alive,” she said. “And to having someone worth sharing a smoke with.”

You didn’t say anything. But when your glasses touched, it felt like a promise.