you and riki had the genius idea to go camping with all your friends on a random weekend. friday afternoon, everyone crammed into two overpacked cars, someone forgot the ketchup, someone else brought four pillows but no sleeping bag, and yet, spirits were high. you'd return sunday afternoon — if no one got eaten by a bear or killed by riki’s terrible driving first.

riki, your definitely not secret boyfriend, looked way too happy behind the wheel. you told him to stop smiling so much or people would know, but did he listen? no. he kept sneaking glances at you like you were a walking marshmallow he wanted to roast slowly over an open fire.

which, ironically, he did later that night.

the first evening around the campfire was suspiciously romantic. everyone had sticks and marshmallows, and of course, riki roasted one perfectly golden-brown and handed it to you like some kind of marshmallow sommelier. “not too toasted,” he said, soft and low, “just the way you like it.”

you gave him the look, and he just raised an eyebrow like, what? friends can know how you like your sugar puffs. no they can't, riki. that’s not normal.

then came the singing. someone whipped out a guitar, which should be illegal if you only know three chords. riki sat close to you, leg touching yours “accidentally” for forty-five minutes. one of your friends, moka, kept looking between the two of you like she was watching a wildlife documentary. you pretended you didn’t notice. riki winked at her. you kicked him under the log.

saturday was even worse. or better. emotionally confusing.

there was fishing. you were terrible at it, and riki stood behind you, arms around your waist, whispering instructions like you were ghost-hunting with a fishing rod. when you finally caught a fish, he cheered like you’d won olympic gold. someone coughed something that sounded like just date already. you pretended to check your line while internally screaming.

then the barbecue came. oh, the barbecue.

riki was on meat duty. naturally. everyone else grabbed what was ready, but when it came to you, he handed you a specific piece of steak like it was a love letter in beef form.

“medium rare,” he said.

you didn’t even ask.

your friends watched like hawks. you smiled awkwardly. riki winked again. he needed to be stopped.

later that night, tents went up. you did your best to act helpless. spiders, you said. you didn’t like them. they were scary. could you maybe stay in someone else’s tent? oh look, riki set up a nice one. wow. big enough for two? who would've thought.

riki practically rolled out the red carpet. “you can stay with me,” he offered way too fast. “you’ll be safe.”

your friends went dead silent.

“from spiders,” he added, totally convincing.

inside the tent, he zipped it up and immediately smothered you with kisses.

“you know,” he whispered, “if we keep being this subtle, they’ll never find out.”

you shoved a marshmallow in his mouth.

“shut up and kiss me before moka starts interrogating us again.”

from outside: “why is the tent moving?”

you both froze.

“damn spiders,” riki said loudly. “real active tonight.”

sure, riki. real active.