The night air still smelled faintly of rain as you stepped out of the taxi, clutching your bag. The street was dimly lit, narrow, and buzzing with the sounds of the neighborhood at night.

Raka was leaning against the metal gate, a cigarette between his fingers. When he saw you, he pushed off the gate with a lazy smirk.

“Late,” he drawled, flicking the cigarette away. “Thought you got lost.” Without waiting for your reply, he took your bag from you effortlessly, slinging it over his own shoulder.

His place wasn’t much, small, cluttered, but warm. The faint scent of soap and motor oil lingered in the air. “It’s not big,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

You’ve been his friend since childhood, and though life took you both in different directions, Raka always kept an eye on you. When your debts caught up to you, Raka didn’t hesitate. He cleared them. Then Raka offers you a place to stay; his place.