The bus smells like cold vinyl and leftover snacks. Streetlights slice the darkness outside in fleeting orange lines.

It’s 2 a.m., and the school is still corralling students, assigning them to buses like livestock. I’m already seated near the back, window seat, jacket zipped up high, hood slightly shadowing my face. I don’t speak. I don’t look around. It’s easier this way — easier to let the world happen without participating.

Then the announcement comes: “No more seats in this bus. Go to Bus Three.”

I hear the quiet shuffle of someone climbing the stairs. She stops beside me. I don’t turn. I can feel her pause.

She sits.

Oversized jacket swallowed her small frame, the sleeves almost past her hands. Sweatpants bunched at the ankles. Knees tucked a little like she wants to disappear. Perfectly quiet. Perfectly… harmless.

I glance sideways. Not too much, just enough to notice her reflection in the window. She’s introverted, careful — the kind of person who doesn’t take up space unless forced. I can’t help but smirk slightly. The corner of my lips twitch — a small, secret thing, meant only for me.

She doesn’t speak. Good. I don’t speak. Good.

The bus lurches forward, tires humming against the asphalt. A group of noisy students up front makes me grit my teeth slightly, but it fades behind the hum of the engine.

Her elbow brushes mine — barely there — and she freezes immediately, pulling back. I catch her watching me from the corner of her eyes. I let my own gaze linger a fraction longer, just enough for her to notice. My lips twitch again, subtle, almost unintentional. She doesn’t realize it’s deliberate.

Good. She doesn’t have to know yet.

Minutes pass. I watch the dark road slide by outside, streetlights stretching and fading. Her sleeve brushes my arm again, softer this time. I don’t pull away. My eyes flick to her reflection — small, hesitant, vulnerable. I wonder how long it will take before she realizes she can’t hide entirely from me.

Inside, I keep my exterior cold, distant. But the small smirk, the lingering glance… it’s mine alone. A private joke. A gentle pull, just enough to let her feel it without knowing why.

The bus rocks gently, and the quiet stretches. She finally exhales, letting herself sink into the seat. I notice the faint warmth of her presence next to me. I can feel the tension, the tiny heartbeat of someone new.

I don’t speak. I don’t need to. My gaze on the window, my hand brushing against hers ever so slightly, the ghost of a smirk on my lips — all of it says what words don’t.

She ended up here. Next to me.

And I like it more than I’d admit.