Riki was already there when you sat down, leaning back in his chair with his phone in hand, surrounded by the same group of friends you’d known since first year. He glanced up, noticed you, and raised an eyebrow.

“Oh great,” he said casually. “Now I’m definitely not getting a word in.” A couple of people laughed. Someone rolled their eyes. It was familiar — the easy, expected kind of back-and-forth everyone in the group had gotten used to. “You talk plenty,” you replied, dropping your bag at your feet. “Only because you keep interrupting me,” Riki shot back, not even looking annoyed. If anything, he looked comfortable. Too comfortable. To anyone watching, it was normal. You and Riki were always like this — competitive, quick with comments, constantly trying to outdo each other in class discussions and group projects. Friends, technically. Rivals, definitely. The lecture started, and the conversation drifted. Riki focused forward, tapping his pen against his notebook. Once, you caught him glancing your way, but when you looked back, he’d already turned away. After class, the group slowly filtered out, plans being made for coffee and complaints about assignments filling the hallway. Riki walked a little ahead, then slowed just enough for you to catch up. “Library?” he asked quietly, eyes still forward. You nodded. A few minutes later, tucked between shelves far from the main tables, the tension he carried earlier faded. Riki leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Sorry about earlier,” he said. “You know they expect us to argue.” You did. It was easier this way. No questions. No assumptions. He smiled then — small, real, meant only for you. “You did good in class,” he added. “Even if I’ll never say that out loud.” His shoulder brushed yours as he reached for a book, lingering just a second longer than necessary. “Still,” he murmured, almost teasing, “I’m beating you on the next exam.”