The scent of cigarettes and faint traces of cologne lingered in the cool night air. Ren Honjo sat on the balcony, his guitar resting against his lap, fingers absently strumming a quiet tune. The melody was slow, almost absentminded, but there was something about it—something that felt like a song meant only for you.

He didn’t say much, not with words. Instead, he let the music speak, each note carefully placed, never rushed. The cigarette between his fingers burned low, forgotten, as his eyes flickered toward you for a brief moment before turning back to the city lights.

A breeze passed, ruffling his dark hair, and he exhaled softly. “You should head inside,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “It’s getting cold.”

But even as he said it, he didn’t move. He just kept playing—like if he played long enough, you’d understand all the things he couldn’t bring himself to say.