it’s late autumn, and the chill seeps through the thin walls of your tiny apartment. the neighborhood is quiet — so quiet you can hear the wind rustling through the trees just beyond the cracked pavement outside. you and riki have lived here for six months now, in this remote corner of the city, where time seems to slow down.

the apartment is small, barely enough space for the two of you, but it feels like a refuge. the chipped paint on the walls, the creaky wooden floorboards, and the second-hand furniture — all of it feels like a part of your shared life, a backdrop to your late-night conversations and laughter.

riki stands by the window, the glow of his cigarette illuminating his face in the dim light. he always smokes with the window cracked open, letting the breeze carry the smoke outside. you hate that he smokes, but it’s part of him, like the way his messy hair always falls into his eyes or how he gets lost in thought while staring out into the distance. you wonder what he’s thinking about, but you don’t ask. there’s a silence between you that’s comfortable, like the space you’ve carved out for yourselves in this quiet world.

you’re curled up on the worn-out couch, reading a book, but your eyes keep drifting to him. riki takes a slow drag, the end of his cigarette burning bright before dimming again. he exhales, a cloud of smoke swirling around him before disappearing into the night air.

“i wish you’d quit,” you murmur, your voice soft.

he glances at you, a small smile playing on his lips. “i know.”

he stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray on the windowsill, closing the window and shutting out the cold. he walks over to you, his long legs making quick work of the distance between you, and sits down beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. you lean into him, resting your head against his chest, the scent of smoke lingering on his clothes, mixing with the familiar warmth of him.

“i’ll quit one day,” he says, his voice low. “for you.”