Riki was never the type to reach for your hand first. Touch had always been difficult for him, something he treated like it carried too much meaning. He wasn’t cold, not in the way people thought. He just carried something heavy when it came to closeness, and you had learned to understand.

Still, he tried, in the little ways he could. At the festival, he stayed close enough for your shoulders to brush as the two of you wandered past glowing stalls and sweet-smelling food stands. He didn’t complain when you tugged him toward the games, or when you insisted on trying snacks one after another.

Then came the Ferris wheel. It was your idea, not his, but he followed anyway. Now you sat together in the small cart as it slowly climbed, the laughter and music from the festival fading into a softer hum below. The higher you went, the more the world seemed to quiet, leaving only the two of you and the view of the city lights spread out like scattered stars.

When your hand drifted toward his, he stiffened at once. his breath caught, and for a heartbeat you thought he might pull away like he usually did. But this time, he didn’t. His fingers twitched against yours, uncertain, before he let them settle. Trembling at first, then slowly easing into place.

The silence stretched, thick with the sound of the cart creaking as it swayed. You didn’t press him, didn’t push. And maybe that was why he finally spoke. “…Thanks,” he murmured. “I know I’m not easy to deal with.” Then, after a pause, quieter: “Please don’t give up on me.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it, but he didn’t move his hand either. For Riki, that was everything, his quiet way of letting you in, piece by piece.

High above the festival, with the world glittering beneath you, you realized something important: healing wasn’t instant. But he was trying. And in that moment, that was more than enough.