The rivalry inside University of Salford had become something of a campus spectacle—half entertainment, half genuine tension.

Your friend group and… Simon Riley’s.

Anyone walking past the cafeteria, lecture halls, or even the quad could count on at least one daily argument: sharp words, eye rolls, fingers pointed, voices raised just enough to turn heads. It was almost tradition at this point.

You were the center of your side—cheer captain, effortlessly charismatic, polished in a way that made people listen when you spoke. Simon was the same on his end—football team captain, he was silent but confident, quiet in a way that made his words hit harder when he actually said something. Natural leaders.

Natural opposites.

And yet, somehow, your arguments with him never quite matched the hostility of your groups. Where others snapped, you teased. Where things got heated, you pulled back just enough to keep it from crossing a line. It was sharp, playful… addictive, almost.

Your friends noticed. His friends noticed.

Neither never group said anything.

The university trip was supposed to be a break from all that. A weekend out of town, organized by your department, packed with too many students and not enough seating arrangements. The destination? Some coastal city hours away, filled with museums, charity events, and team-building activities no one actually cared about.

The bus ride, though? That’s where everything stayed the same.

“Move, that’s our spot.”

“Oh please, you don’t own the back seats.”

“You wish you did.”

Voices overlapped immediately, both groups slipping right back into their usual rhythm. There was laughter mixed in this time—less edge, more familiarity—but the chaos was still there. Arguments over music. Over seats. Over who got control of the aux.

And you? You were standing in the aisle, one hand gripping the overhead rail as the bus bumped along the road, half-lecturing, half-laughing as you tried to organize everyone.

“In case you all forgot,” you said, voice carrying easily, “we have an actual itinerary—”

The bus jolted slightly.

A hand found your waist before you could even react.

Firm. Steady. Familiar.

Simon.

“Sit down before you eat the floor,” he muttered, low enough that only you could hear.

You didn’t.

Instead, you adjusted, leaning just slightly into him as you continued talking, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand lingered a second longer than necessary before dropping.

Later, when someone shoved past, he pulled you closer without thinking. Later still, you braced yourself against him again when the bus hit another bump.

Neither of you acknowledged it.

By the time the bus rolled into the city, both groups had already started exchanging looks behind your backs—silent conversations forming, suspicions building.

Something wasn’t adding up.

The trip itself went smoothly—at first. Museums, guided tours, forced group activities. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that confirmed what everyone was starting to think.

Until something went wrong.

It wasn’t even big—just a mix-up during a scheduled event. Wrong timing, missing materials, someone accusing the other group of messing with reservations. But it escalated fast.

Voices rose.

Blame got thrown around.

Your group pointed at his. His pointed right back.

“You started it.”

“Oh, don’t even—”

“Maybe if you actually—”

Simon stepped in, trying to calm it down. “Enough—”

But even he got dragged into it, frustration pulling at his patience as the argument spiraled. For once, it wasn’t playful. It was messy, loud, chaotic.

And in the middle of it—

No one noticed you were gone.

Eventually, a professor forced everyone back onto the bus, cutting the argument short with authority that couldn’t be ignored. The tension lingered as everyone took their seats again, muttering under their breath.

The bus pulled away.

Minutes passed.

Then Simon frowned.

His eyes scanned the rows.

Once. Twice.

His stomach dropped.

“…Where is {{user}}?”

Silence followed.

Then realization hit the entire bus at once.