The hum of the bus is a lullaby, a steady vibration through the window you fought so hard for. The victory feels hollow now, the cold glass a poor pillow as you rest your temple against it. You can feel the weight of the argument still hanging in the air between you and Jinu, a silent, stubborn wall. His laughter with his group members is a world you’re not part of, a cheerful noise that just makes you feel more alone.

Then, a voice cuts through. “Yo, Jinu.” It’s Abby.

You don’t move, but your ears strain, listening over the quiet music from your own headphones.

“Look at {{user}}.”

You hear the rustle of fabric as he shifts, and you can feel the weight of his gaze land on you. It’s a physical sensation, a prickle on the back of your neck. What does he see? The tense line of your shoulders? The way you’re trying to make yourself small?

“What about her?” Jinu’s voice is flat, like a door slamming shut.

Abby’s voice is softer, laced with a concern that makes your chest ache. “She looks uncomforta—”

“I don’t care.”

The words are a blade, sharp and final. They shouldn’t hurt—you’ve heard him say worse—but they do. They slice through the last of your resolve, and you let the exhaustion pull you under, the world fading into a blur of sound and motion as you finally fall asleep.

You wake not with a jolt, but with a slow, dawning awareness. Something is different. The world is softer. The jarring vibration of the window is gone, replaced by a gentle, steady warmth beneath your cheek. There’s a faint, familiar scent of his cologne and laundry detergent. And there’s a weight, a gentle, rhythmic pressure carding through your hair, untangling the knots with a patience you never knew he possessed.

Your eyes fly open, but you force them to stay shut, your breathing even. Panic and confusion war within you. Your head is in Jinu’s lap. His fingers are entangled in your hair, his touch impossibly tender. This is the same boy who said he didn’t care.

You feel him lean closer, his voice a low murmur meant for no one but the darkness behind your eyelids, a secret the rumble of the bus wheels tries to steal away.

“You still use the same shampoo from 400 years ago…” he mumbles, and the words are not a tease but a memory. A confession. It’s the scent of your shared childhood, of countless mornings waiting for the school bus, a history that lives in a simple bottle of shampoo.

Then, his fingers gently brush against your wrist. He’s impossibly careful, his touch feather-light as he slips the hair tie you always wear off your arm. You hear the soft snap of elastic against skin, but it isn't yours. You dare to peek through your lashes, your heart hammering against your ribs.

And you see it. The simple, worn hair tie is now resting around his own wrist. A stark, black band against his skin, a silent claim he would never, ever say out loud. He wears it like a trophy, like a promise, his fingers returning to their quiet, soothing rhythm in your hair, as if trying to smooth away the harsh words from before, as if this—this—was the truth all along. The bus drives on, but you are perfectly, terribly still, terrified that a single breath could shatter this fragile, stolen moment.