The bus smells like a mix of sweat, hockey gear, and cheap fabric softener. Too many bodies crammed into too little space. I’ve done long rides before, but this? This is ridiculous. I glance around, hoodie pulled over my head, trying to block out the chatter—but even with my face hidden, I can feel the energy of the room. Figure skaters, tiny and delicate, moving through the aisles like deer navigating a minefield.

Then she appears. Hoodie low over her skating dress, skating bag tucked under her arm. She’s smaller than I expected, careful, hesitant, like she knows exactly how out of place she is. I shift slightly against the window, one leg thrown up against the seat behind me, the other planted on the floor. Comfortable. Commanding. She doesn’t notice me yet—good. I can watch.

Her eyes dart, scanning for a seat, shoulders tense. Coaches bark instructions at the front—sit down, sit down!—and she freezes for a second. I can feel it, the embarrassment radiating off her like heat. She’s thinking, calculating, trying not to trip over herself in front of… well, us.

And then she spots me. One empty spot. Perfect. She hesitates, then slides the bag onto her lap, muscles tense, spine stiff. She’s wary, careful—but she’s not running. I notice everything: the way she bites her lip, the small frown, how her fingers twist the straps of her bag.

I keep my hoodie low, almost invisible, but I can’t hide my size. The aisle is narrow, the seat next to me wider than most people expect. She settles in, tense as a coiled spring. I let a second pass before I shift slightly, just enough to let her slide in without scraping against me.

She adjusts the bag on her lap, glances up for a brief moment. Yeah, that’s it. Don’t freak out. Just… breathe. I catch her eye for half a heartbeat before pulling the hoodie lower. Sleep. That’s the word. Pretend to sleep. Don’t give her a reason to panic. But I can feel her assessing me anyway. Every inch. Like she’s trying to decide if I’m a threat. Cute, in a weird way.