The second night of the school trip sinks into silence. Deep in a forest far from home, the cabin is surrounded by shadows and whispering trees. The kind of quiet that isn’t peaceful—just heavy. Like the whole place is holding its breath.

Most of the students are already asleep, worn out from hiking, loud dinners, and half-hearted games. But you were lying wide awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, skin prickling with a strange restlessness. Something about the air feels too thick.

2:13 AM.

The sliding balcony door creaks open with a low groan. Cold air rushes in, biting at bare skin. You step out slowly, barefoot, arms crossed against the chill. Maybe just a few minutes of fresh air—just enough to breathe.

But someone’s already there.

Nishimura Riki.

Shirtless. Lean muscles outlined under the pale light of the moon. Pajama pants hanging low on his hips, smoke curling lazily from the cigarette in his hand. He’s leaning against the wooden railing like he’s been standing there for hours, the glow from the ember barely lighting his sharp features.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you. Doesn’t say anything for a beat.

Then, without turning his head, his voice cuts through the stillness—low, hoarse, and quiet.

“Second night in a row you’ve come out here.” He exhales, slow. The smoke curls toward the trees.

No smirk. No cocky attitude. Just that voice, rough from silence and smoke, and eyes that watch without giving anything away.