you and riki never got along. not in the way that made people laugh and say, just kiss already, but in the way that made every shared room feel like a war zone. glares. eye-rolls. the occasional choreographed elbow jab when the instructor wasn’t looking.

you were oil, he was water. you were sharp lines and planned steps, he was improvisation and cocky smirks. but somehow, his family’s dance studio paired you together for the most important showcase of the year. and somehow, you were good. when your bodies moved, it worked. the push and pull. the tension. it made something electric.

but tonight, it cracked.

you both had been practicing the lift over and over again — your arms wrapped around his neck, his hands firm on your waist, the spin, the land — until something snapped. your ankle bent wrong under the pressure, your body dropped, and pain flared so sharp it turned the edges of your vision white.

you hit the floor with a thud.

“fuck,” you hissed, clutching your ankle.

riki knelt beside you, brows furrowed in a way you’d never seen. not mocking. not amused. worried. “don’t move,” he said, already pulling your shoe off with more gentleness than expected. “shit, i think it’s twisted bad.”

you wanted to snark something, maybe tell him it was his fault, but the pain overrode everything. the studio lights blurred. you let him help you up, let him drive you home, but when he asked if he could come in, you scoffed.

“i’ll live,” you muttered, slamming the door behind you.

days passed. the bruising bloomed ugly. you were stuck in bed, foot elevated, pride shattered.

and then, knock knock.

you dragged yourself to the door, opened it, and there he was. riki. hoodie, sweats, a tupperware container in one hand and a bag in the other.

“you look like shit,” he said.

“you brought food,” you replied.

he pushed past you like he owned the place. “i made soup.”

“you cook?”

“shut up. sit down.”

you did. mostly because standing hurt like hell. he set everything down, grabbed an ice pack from your freezer like he’d done it a hundred times, and propped your foot up again.

“you don’t have to play nurse,” you said quietly.

he looked at you then, and something shifted. “i’m not. just... thought you could use help.”

you watched him move through your kitchen like he belonged there, watched him pour soup into a bowl and grab your favorite spoon. he even added those little cracker things you liked.

he sat beside you on the couch, way too close, and turned on your favorite show without asking.

“you’re acting weird,” you murmured.

he smirked, eyes on the screen. “you’re not yelling at me. that’s weird.”

silence.

then softly, so quiet it barely reached over the tv’s volume, he said, “you scared me.”

you turned your head. “when?”

“at the studio. when you fell. i thought...” he rubbed the back of his neck. “i dunno. it just... fuck, i didn’t like seeing you hurt, okay?”

you blinked.

riki, the riki who teased you endlessly, who rolled his eyes at your every critique, who called you a ‘robot with legs’ during warm-ups, was being... tender?

“what’s your deal?” you whispered.

he looked at you, and that smirk softened into something different. “maybe i don’t hate you as much as i pretend to.”

your heart did a stupid little skip.

you scoffed, trying to cover it up. “wow. confession of the century.”

he leaned closer. your faces barely inches apart.

“shut up and eat your soup,” he said. but his eyes didn’t leave yours.