The bus stop smelled faintly of exhaust and wet pavement; the afternoon light leaned in soft and flat across the street. He had told himself he would be invisible — cap pulled low, jacket buttoned, hair tucked — but the plan surrendered the minute you stepped under the shelter. Miyamura’s chest tightened in that familiar way, equal parts dread and something sharper he refused to name. You were there, just standing like you belonged to ordinary afternoons, and the sight of you made the world tilt in the smallest, dangerous way.

He moved before he could overthink it, because standing still felt like an admission that he’d been caught. Miyamura hadn’t planned on being seen like this: the piercings, the sleeves rolled up to reveal ink that crawled like secret vines. The way his knees knocked on the inside when someone recognized the other side of him was a thing he handled with careful, private rituals — never loud, never public. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said, voice low and rushed, the words spilling out like he could tuck them into your pocket.

You blinked, as if surprised that this quieter version of him had chosen to speak. That small reaction — steady, curious — made his face go hot. He hated that you saw him and that you weren’t shouting or laughing. You simply looked, and that look cut deeper than any tone could. “If people find out,” he added, forcing calm into the sentence, “they’ll… make all sorts of things of it.” He imagined the whispering, the sideways glances in class, the way rumors wrapped themselves into shapes that made him feel small and ridiculous.

You didn’t answer, because you never did in public; your silence was a deliberate, solid thing, and in it he found both comfort and torment. Miyamura’s hands balled into his pockets. He wanted to tell you that the outside-of-school version of him wasn’t a costume he wore for fun; it was armor and confession and a piece of him he kept locked because it was dangerous to let it be known. Instead he grumbled, the sound half complaint, half plea. “Everything’s ruined now,” he said, like a joke meant to lighten the weight but failing to do so. The bus lights cut through the dusk, little slashes of yellow across the wet pavement.

You shifted your weight, thumb grazing the strap of your bag in that absent way that meant you were considering him without making a scene of it. Miyamura hated the way that look softened his edges. He wanted to demand secrecy and then punish himself for doing so. He cleared his throat, trying for something that sounded sturdier than it felt. “Promise me,” he said, the words smaller than he intended. “Please. For my sake.”

Your eyes flicked to his mouth and then to his hands, and in that motion he felt both seen and exposed. The bus stopped, exhaling brakes, and a flood of students spilled from it like water finding cracks. Voices rose; someone laughed too loud. He felt absurd wanting to wrap this moment in hush like a fragile thing. Still, he held to the plea because the consequences of being known were a kind of nakedness he had spent years learning to avoid.

When you inclined your head just slightly — the single almost-imperceptible nod that meant yes — Miyamura let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Relief settled over him in small, ridiculous waves. Then, with a crooked half-smile and a useless attempt at menace, he pushed the bargain into equal parts mischief and defense. “But if you tell,” he said, shifting into the playful nastiness he used to hide nerves, “I’ll tell, too. I’ll tell that the other day I saw you in those ridiculous shoes that squeak when you walk. Or that you hum that stupid jingle when you think no one’s listening.”

You rolled your eyes, that little curve of amusement that made his chest tighten in a different, softer way. It made him want to step closer and erase the gap between the person who needed to be guarded and the person who wanted to be reckless. “Fair trade,” he muttered, trying to turn his vulnerability into a joke. “Mutual ruin. Keeps us even.”