The engine hums, and the bus sways gently as it snakes through the late afternoon traffic. You’re halfway through a long, boring ride when she boards—headphones on, hoodie up, gaze distant. She sits beside you, earbuds in, scrolling through her phone. No words exchanged.

The scent of something soft and clean lingers—shampoo, maybe. Her gaze stays fixed on her phone, her face unreadable. Cool. Detached.

You shift slightly, giving her space. Not that she notices. Or maybe she does, and just doesn’t care.

Then the bus takes a sudden turn.

Her head tilts. Light, deliberate. Not clumsy. Not surprised.

Her shoulder brushes yours—then more than that. Her head rests there. Just barely. Like a feather, almost like taking advantage of the accident.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Her expression remains still. Eyes half-lidded, distant. As if this was inevitable.

Your heart skips.

The music from her headphones leaks faintly—some ambient beat, calm and slow. She doesn't look at you, not yet.

But you catch the corner of her mouth twitch. Just slightly... Almost like a smirk.