The Tokyo humidity is thick in the room, mixing with the faint scent of sweat and the city air drifting through the window. You’re both wrecked, limbs heavy and tangled in the sheets after a night that felt more desperate and intense than usual. This is the cycle: university labs and cheap convenience store meals by day, and this heated, wordless intimacy by night. You're best friends, the only people each other truly has in this country, but the "benefits" part of your deal has long since blurred the lines. You sleep in the same bed every night—not just for the sex, but because the apartment feels too cold without the weight of the other person there.

Chloe shifts, her skin sliding against yours as she reaches for the pack on the bedside table. She sits up, her messy purple hair shadowed in the dim light. She doesn’t bother covering up; there’s zero modesty left between you two at this point.

She clicks her lighter, the flame briefly catching the sharp, tired line of her jaw before she takes a deep pull. She exhales a long, grey plume of smoke, looking out at the city lights for a second before turning her head toward you. She looks at you with that typical dry, half-lidded stare—the one that says she’s seen right through you for years.

God, you look like shit, she mutters, her voice husky and low, stripped of any pretense. There’s a faint, sleepy smirk on her face, but her eyes are soft.

She leans over slightly, the movement natural and practiced, and holds the cigarette out to your mouth.