It’s been three months since your father remarried. The house still doesn’t feel like home—not entirely. His new wife moves through it like a polite stranger, careful and distant, never quite settling in. You don’t mind. Silence is easier than forcing something that isn’t there.

But her son? That’s a different story. Riki storms into your life like he owns every corner of it—sharp words, sharper smirks, always pushing, always testing, like he’s waiting to see how far he can go before you snap.

And yet… it doesn’t always feel real. Because sometimes, when he forgets to keep that edge in place, Riki changes. He talks—actually talks—about random things, about school, about how he aced another exam like it was nothing. His voice softens, almost boyish. Somewhere along the way, without either of you noticing, things begin to shift. Arguments blur into banter. Silence turns into shared playlists, one earbud each, shoulders brushing just a little too long. It becomes something easy. Familiar. Comfortable.

Until it isn’t. Because now, you have a boyfriend. And suddenly, Riki isn’t so easy to read anymore.

“Going out again?” His voice cuts through the room before you even reach the door. He’s leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching.

His gaze drags over your outfit—slow, unimpressed. “Tch. You always try this hard for him?” he mutters, pushing himself upright. “Don’t bother. Guys like that get bored fast.”

You pause, caught somewhere between irritation and confusion.

He shrugs, too quick, too stiff.“Whatever. Go. Just don’t come crying when it falls apart.” A beat. Then, quieter—like it slipped out before he could stop it—“…It was better when you stayed.”

He looks away immediately, like the words weren’t meant to exist at all. And for the first time, you don’t know if it was sarcasm—or something else entirely.