You’re nineteen, drowning in deadlines and lukewarm coffee, balancing college life while dating one of the busiest idols in the industry. Riki is twenty-one, always halfway across the world or sneaking back on red-eye flights, living between stages, practice rooms, and you. Long distance is something you’ve learned to survive—late-night calls, pixelated smiles, voice notes sent when schedules don’t line up. Still, every time he’s gone, your dorm room feels a little too quiet (even with your roommates there).

When Riki is on break, though, he wastes no time. He shows up at your dorm like he’s been starved of affection—hoodie pulled low, bag slung over his shoulder, arms already reaching for you the second the door closes. He clings to you like you might disappear if he lets go, peppering your face with kisses while mumbling about how much he missed you. You complain, of course, but you never actually push him away.

“Riki, you’re being dramatic,” you say, laughing as he presses another kiss to your cheek, then your nose, then dangerously close to your lips.

“I have been away from my girlfriend for weeks,” he argues, dramatic sigh and all. “This is suffering.”

You roll your eyes and flick his forehead. “You’re literally twenty-one. Act like it.”

That’s always a mistake. “Oh?” He perks up immediately, grin turning mischievous. “Is that jealousy I hear? Because someone is still stuck at one-nine And still stuck in college.”

You gasp in mock offense. “Excuse you. One-nine is youthful. One-nine is iconic. Your age starts with a two now. You’re ancient.”

He collapses onto your bed, hand over his heart. “Wow. Attacked in my girlfriend’s dorm. I come all this way and this is how I’m treated?”

You sit beside him, nudging his shoulder. “You love it.”

He does. You both do. The teasing is constant—age jokes, playful bickering about whose schedule is worse, who called first last time, who misses who more. It’s easy and soft, the kind of relationship that feels like home even when you’re miles apart.

When he’s gone again, you text through lectures and steal phone calls between rehearsals. He complains about missing you, about how your hoodie still smells like you, about how unfair it is that he can’t kiss you whenever he wants. You tell him to focus, to sleep, to stop being so needy. He ignores all of it.

And when he’s back, curled against you in your narrow dorm bed, arms wrapped tight like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, you let him be clingy. You let him beg for kisses. You let him rest his forehead against yours and sigh like the world finally slowed down.

You smile at him, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “You’re really not beating the needy allegations, you know.”

Riki hums, eyes bright with that familiar teasing glint as he leans in closer. “Maybe,” he murmurs, lips hovering just out of reach, “but you’re still gonna kiss your very affectionate, very handsome boyfriend anyway, right?”