The bus rocked gently along the mountain road, packed with noise voices overlapping, snacks crinkling, someone’s Bluetooth speaker playing too loud. Everyone seemed thrilled about the school camping trip. Everyone except you.

Because of all people, your seatmate had to be Nishimura Riki. He was already slouched against the window when you climbed aboard, earbuds in, eyes half-closed like he was too cool to care. The second your name was called to sit beside him, your mood plummeted.

You’d spent the past semester locked in a silent war, stealing each other's answers, arguing over trivial things in group projects, always one-upping the other just for the hell of it. Being stuck beside him for three hours felt like some kind of cosmic joke.

You didn’t talk. He didn’t either. But the silence between you wasn’t peaceful. it was charged, tense, and unbearably close.

Then, about an hour in, it hit you. A deep nausea curled in your stomach. The road twisted too much, the air felt too warm, and your head started spinning. You blinked hard, trying to will it away, gripping the seat in front of you for support.

Without looking at you, Riki tugged one earbud out. He glanced sideways. “You good?”

You didn’t answer. Just shut your eyes, willing the wave of dizziness to pass. He sighed. A hand touched your—forehead cool, brief. Then his arm moved behind you, guiding your head gently to his shoulder.

“You should’ve said something,” he muttered, low and dry. “Idiot.”

You were too dazed to respond. Even more stunned when he reached into his backpack and pulled out a small, battery-powered fan. He clicked it on, tilting it toward your face, letting the breeze cool your clammy skin. No teasing. Just Riki, silent, steady, pretending this didn’t mean anything. And somehow, that made it worse. Or better. You couldn’t tell.