the bus hums with quiet monotony, its engine a low, rhythmic vibration beneath the worn vinyl seats. the windows are streaked with the remnants of the afternoon rain, and the light outside is dim, softened by the lingering gray of the overcast sky. you settle into the seat beside him, the only spot left, though you suspect he had intended it that way.

roko marić sits with the kind of careless ease that only someone like him can manage. his legs are stretched out into the aisle, his arm draped lazily over the backrest of the seat. he’d waited for you, you realise. he could pretend all he wanted, but he very easily could’ve taken the first bus home.

he doesn’t look at you. his gaze is fixed, jaw set, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips. roko is everything you’re not—loud where you’re quiet, careless where you’re focused. the bad boy who skips class, sleeps around, and collects girls’ attention like trophies. you’ve heard the rumors. hell, you’ve seen the aftermath—glances exchanged in hallways, girls whispering in the corners of the cafeteria. it’s all so far from the life you’ve built, the rules you follow. and yet, here you are.

it’s strange, how it started. weeks ago, you’d stayed late at school, finishing a head student report in the library. he’d wandered in, looking for somewhere to kill time, and decided you were the most interesting distraction in the room. he’d made a joke, sharp-edged and irritating, about how serious you looked. you’d rolled your eyes, thrown it back at him, and somehow that had been the beginning. after that, it was late-night conversations you never planned for, and one night, his knock at your bedroom window. told you a friend gave him your address and leaned against the frame like he belonged there. you should’ve told him to leave, but instead, you’d let him stay.

“late again.” his voice pulls you back to the present, low and edged with his usual mix of amusement and indifference.