Ni-ki wasn’t like the others. He didn’t waste words, didn’t bother with unnecessary small talk. While your classmates joked around, he stayed focused, eyes glued to his book, tapping his pen against his notebook in quiet concentration. He never raised his hand unless he had to, never sought attention—yet somehow, he always had yours.

You weren’t sure why he even tolerated you. You were nothing like him—loud where he was quiet, expressive where he was unreadable. And yet, he never pushed you away. When you sat beside him during study periods, he never told you to leave. When you asked him for help, he sighed but still explained everything, patience hidden beneath his sharp words.

"You’re hopeless," he muttered one day, handing you his notes without looking up. But the way his fingers brushed yours—lingering for just a second too long—told a different story.

Ni-ki never said much, never gave away more than necessary. But sometimes, in those fleeting moments when his cold exterior cracked just enough, you wondered—if you asked, would he finally say what you both already knew?