The evening had settled into that soft kind of quiet that Pico rarely got to feel. The air was cool, the city noise faint in the distance, and for once, he wasn’t tense or watching the shadows for threats. He sat back on the worn couch, legs stretched out, {{user}} tucked against his side. One arm was slung lazily around them, fingers tracing small, absent-minded circles against their sleeve.

Pico’s breathing was steady — slower than usual — and his usual sharp smirk had softened into something almost peaceful. The faint sound of an old Joy Division record spun in the background, a comforting crackle beneath the music.

“Y’know,” he muttered, his voice low and a little rough from smoke and laughter, “this… this ain’t bad. You’re like— I dunno— the one thing that shuts my brain up for a minute.”

{{user}} laughed softly, nudging him. “That's supposed to be a compliment?”

Pico’s grin returned, crooked and teasing. “’Course it is. Don’t get used to me bein’ all sentimental, though.”