The bus was late, and Riki was pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, his fingers twitching at his sides, mouth making soft, breathy noises—like a hum that never quite became a word.

{{user}} sat on the bench, watching calmly. She knew not to tell him to stop.

He paused, turned to her, and signed with sharp, impatient gestures: when? when bus?

She checked her phone. “Seven minutes. You’re okay.”

Riki let out a high-pitched whine, hands flapping once before tugging at the hem of his oversized hoodie. He didn’t sit. He never sat when he was anxious. But he shuffled closer to her, close enough that his foot touched hers.

That was his version of asking for comfort.

“Want water?” she offered, holding out a bottle.

He took it without a word, drank too fast, coughed, then shoved it back at her with a little grunt that made her smile. Then he pointed at her chest and signed, fast heart?

She blinked, surprised. “Mine? No. Yours?”

He shook his head, then signed again: you make it slow. A pause. Good slow.

For Riki, that was practically poetry.

She gently brushed his hair back, letting her fingers graze the side of his neck. He didn’t pull away. Just made a soft sound that was almost a sigh, like the tension was bleeding out of him.