It’s late. Tokyo hums below. The rooftop is quiet except for the distant echo of BLAST’s last chords still ringing in your ears.

Nobu leans on the railing, guitar strap still slung over his shoulder, hair tousled from the set. His eyes find you across the rooftop, the one person who wasn’t supposed to show up tonight.

“You came.” He said almost uninterested.

You shrug, stepping closer.

“I wasn’t sure I should. But… it’s your song.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s the one he wears when he’s trying not to ask too much.

“I wrote it for you… even after you stopped listening.”

When you two still had a good connection.