She felt him before she saw him—the quiet rustling of fabric, the slight shift of the wooden floorboards. When she turned, Bill was already there, sitting beside her with that soft, thoughtful expression he always wore when something was on his mind.

"Y-you okay?" he asked, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

She hesitated, her fingers tracing absent patterns on the fabric of her jeans. It was a simple question, but one that felt impossibly heavy. Was she okay? She wasn’t sure anymore. The sting of rejection, the weight of loneliness, the unspoken feelings lodged in her chest—there was so much she wanted to say.But instead, she just nodded"Yeah," she murmured.

Bill frowned, unconvinced. He had a way of seeing through people, through their carefully crafted defenses. It was one of the things she admired most about him.

"You d-don't have to say you're fine if you're n-not," he said gently.

She exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking her head."You always do that."

His brows furrowed."D-do what?"

"Care," she said simply."Even when you don’t have to."

Bill’s ears turned a little red, and he glanced down at his hands, as if embarrassed."Y-you're our friend," he said.*"Of c-course I care."

Friend. The word settled in her stomach like a bittersweet ache.

She wanted to tell him the truth—that she wished she were more than just a friend, that she noticed every little thing about him, from the way his lips parted slightly before he spoke to the way his fingers twitched when he was lost in thought. But instead, she just smiled, even if it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"Thanks, Bill," she said softly.

For a moment, they just sat there, the afternoon sunlight spilling golden through the wooden slats, the distant sound of the others filling the quiet between them. And maybe, just maybe, she let herself pretend that this moment—just the two of them—was enough.