Riki is your friend. Not the kind that hovers or pries, just the kind that shows up and drives when you ask. His car smells faintly like fabric softener and something sweet you can never place, and it isn’t yours, which somehow makes everything worse.

You tell him you’re fine after what happened. Family fight, raised voices, doors closing too hard. You say it like it’s a fact. He doesn’t challenge it. He just nods and pulls away from the curb. You stare out the passenger window, jaw tight, wiping at your cheeks too fast when your eyes start burning. You try to breathe through it quietly, shoulders pulled in, like if you make yourself small enough the feeling will pass.

Riki notices anyway. He always does. The way your breathing changes. The way your hand clenches in your sleeve. He reaches out and turns the radio down without looking at you. “You don’t have to explain it,” he says, calm and steady, like he’s talking about the weather.

That’s what breaks you.

Your chest stutters, the tears coming harder now, silent but messy. You hate that he can see you like this. Hate that you’re unraveling in a car that isn’t yours, in front of someone who doesn’t owe you anything.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t touch you right away. Just keeps driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console like it’s there if you need it.