You’ve had detention because of Nishimura Riki more times than you can count.

Not because you’re a troublemaker.

But because he is.

Riki has a reputation at your university—skipping lectures he doesn’t find “intellectually stimulating,” talking back to professors with that infuriating half-smile, organizing underground after-hours events that somehow toe the line of getting him expelled without ever quite crossing it.

You, on the other hand, are a scholarship student. Perfect attendance. Clean record. Structured. Focused.

So of course the administration decides the best solution is pairing you together for a semester-long leadership initiative meant to “encourage balance.”

Balance.

You call it punishment.

“You don’t have to glare at me like that,” Riki says the first time you’re forced to sit next to him in the campus innovation lab.

“I’m not glaring.”

“You are.” He leans back in his chair, boots propped casually on the table despite the clear sign that says not to. “It’s cute.”

Your eye twitches. “Take your feet down.”

“Make me.”

The worst part? He’s smart. Annoyingly, effortlessly smart. He finishes complex projections in minutes, then spends the rest of the session flicking your pen away or whispering commentary just to get under your skin.

“You color-code your notes?” he murmurs, leaning too close to your shoulder. “That’s either impressive or terrifying.”

“At least I take this seriously.”

His gaze sharpens slightly at that. “You think I don’t?”

“I think you like pretending nothing matters.”

Silence.

It lasts half a second too long.

Then he smirks again. “Maybe I just don’t like playing by boring rules.”

You should hate him. And you do—when he hacks the campus speakers to blast music at midnight. When he drags you into a disciplinary hearing because your name is attached to his latest stunt. When he winks at you across the quad after you swear you’re done helping him.

But there are moments.

Like when you find him alone on the rooftop of the science building, sitting on the ledge with his legs dangling off the edge.

“What are you doing?” you hiss, panic flashing through you.

“Relax,” he says without looking back. “I’m not going to fall.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

He glances over his shoulder at you, wind pushing his dark hair back. There’s no audience up here. No smirk. No show.

“You’re the only one who ever comes looking for me,” he says quietly.

Your anger falters. “Because you’re an idiot.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah. But I’m your idiot.”