The room smells faintly of paint and smoke — that sharp chemical bite mixed with something warm and human. The window’s cracked open, and the city hums outside: cars, voices, the occasional train in the distance. A sketchbook lies open on the floor beside a half-finished can of beer, its pages smudged with streaks of charcoal and color.

Michael’s lying on his side, one arm propped under his head, the other holding the joint between his fingers. The smoke curls toward the ceiling in slow spirals. He looks over at you for a second — that same half-grin that never quite reaches his eyes — then passes the joint across the space between you.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low, almost swallowed by the quiet. “It hits harder at the end.”

He watches as you take it, his gaze soft but distracted, like his thoughts are somewhere else. A faint smear of paint still marks his wrist, blue against his skin. His lips twitch like he wants to say something but doesn’t.

He glances at the wall across the room — a fresh piece he’d started earlier, bold lines layered over old ones. “Been thinkin’ about redoing it,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Something new… something that doesn’t fade so easy.”

For a while, neither of you speak. Just the hum of the city, the faint sound of laughter from the street below, and the steady rhythm of his breathing next to yours. Then, softer, almost like he regrets letting it slip, he adds,

“Didn’t plan on stickin’ around this long.”

He looks at you again — a quiet look that says everything he won’t.