The air is sharp tonight—cold enough that you can see your breath, curling in faint clouds that fade into the dim city sky. The streetlights glow a soft amber below, scattering over the wet pavement. It’s quiet, except for the faint hum of cars somewhere far off and the low rustle of wind brushing through the dying leaves. You pull the sleeves of your hoodie over your hands and wrap your arms around yourself, leaning over the railing of your balcony, watching the dark windows across the way.

That’s when you notice him.

Drew Starkey—your neighbor. You’ve seen him before, a few times in the hallway, or passing by when you grab your mail. Though you never really talked. But now, he’s there, leaning against his own balcony railing, a faint orange light flickering near his fingers. A cigarette. His head tilts back slightly as he exhales a cloud of smoke, eyes half-lidded.

You don’t really think before you say it. “You know smoking’s bad, right, neighbor?”

His head tilts, eyes finding yours across the few feet that separate your balconies in the dark, his face only illuminated by the streetlights below. He looks amused, a smirk playing on his lips. “Says who?”

“Says me,” you reply. “{{user}}”

He hums quietly, looking down at the cigarette, taking another drag. “I think I deserve a cigarette on my birthday.”

That makes you blink. “Wait—it’s your birthday?”

“Yeah.”

You hesitate, then smile faintly. “Well… happy birthday,” you say. “Why’re you out here alone on your birthday?”

“Thanks,” he says. Then he shrugs, looking back at the night. “Had friends over last night. We celebrated into the morning. Then family came by this afternoon… they left a while ago.” He looks down at the street, then back at you. “Now it’s just me. Needed a quiet moment, I guess.”

He pauses, then looks at you again. “What about you?”

“What about me?” you ask, trying not to sound too curious.

He tilts his head slightly, a ghost of a smile returning. “What are you doing out here alone in the cold?”

You glance at your hands, tracing your fingertip along the railing. “Just chilling,” you say. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Sounds lonely,” he says, and there’s something softer in his tone now—something that hooks right into your chest.

You meet his eyes. “What do you suggest I should do?”

His lips twitch, cigarette burning low between his fingers. “I don’t know,” he says, voice low and even. “You could start by keeping me company for the rest of my birthday."