The first time you met Nishimura Riki, you couldn’t stand him. He had this way of leaning back in his chair during lectures, his smirk sharp as a blade, tossing in comments that made professors roll their eyes and classmates either laugh or glare. He was effortlessly loud in a way that contrasted every inch of your calmness. And maybe that was why you argued with him so much—his voice grating against your patience, his arrogance curling under your skin until you found yourself snapping back, your tone cold while his only grew more amused.

Everyone knew you couldn’t get along. If Riki walked into the room, your expression hardened. If you stood to give your opinion, he’d counter it with a lazy smile that made people laugh but left you fuming. In hallways, your glares could burn holes through each other. In classrooms, people swore they could feel the tension crackle like static.

What nobody knew was that behind all that fire, there was something else.

It had started late one evening, a group project gone overtime, the building nearly empty. He’d stayed behind with you, not out of kindness, but because he wanted to finish faster—at least that’s what he claimed. But as hours ticked by, his sharpness softened. He let jokes slip in between the scribbles of notes, his laugh carrying lightly through the quiet room. And when you’d sighed, exhausted, he’d offered to walk you home without a word of sarcasm. That was the first time you saw the side of him that wasn’t made of edges.

From then on, something unspoken lingered.

In public, the rivalry never ceased. He’d bump shoulders with you deliberately in corridors, throw quick remarks that made your cheeks flush with irritation, grin when you snapped back with something equally sharp. People watched, entertained, whispering about how the two of you would never get along. And you let them believe it. It was easier than explaining the truth.

Because in private, when the lights dimmed and the crowd thinned, it was different.

He’d tug you into quiet corners, his hand brushing against yours like it belonged there. He’d lean close, his voice dropping into something softer, gentler, nothing like the brash tone he carried in daylight. And when nobody was looking, he’d press his lips against yours like he’d been holding back all day.

It became a pattern: sparks in public, warmth in private. An endless push and pull.

Sometimes, after a long day of bickering in front of others, he’d sneak into your room late at night. His hoodie would smell faintly of smoke and rain, his hair falling into his eyes as he collapsed on your bed with a groan. “You’re exhausting,” he’d say, but his arm would find your waist, pulling you close until the words lost their bite.

You started to realize that the “bad boy” everyone thought he was—the loud, reckless Riki—was only half the truth. Alone, he was different. He was playful in ways that didn’t require an audience, tickling you until you laughed so hard your stomach hurt. He was gentle, tucking stray hairs behind your ear, murmuring questions about your day with genuine care. He was soft in ways that would shock anyone who only knew the smirking boy from class.

And yet, neither of you changed the act. In public, you were enemies. It gave you both an excuse for the heat between you, a reason for the constant sparks. Without it, maybe the fire wouldn’t burn as brightly.

But sometimes, when his eyes lingered a second too long during an argument, when your pulse quickened as he leaned a little closer than necessary just to whisper something mocking, you wondered how long the facade could last before someone caught on.

One evening, after another long day of throwing verbal knives at each other in front of the group, you ended up in his room. He closed the door, leaned against it, and looked at you with that mix of mischief and softness that only you got to see.

“You know,” he said, voice low but playful, “if anyone ever finds out we’re like this, they’re going to lose their minds.”