The banner was finally done.
It stretched across the table like a sigh of relief, bold and clean and surprisingly cohesive, considering how shaky her hands had been when she started. Riko leaned back, her muscles screaming in quiet protest, her brain fuzzing with the weight of the day.
She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, accidentally smudging paint there, and then pulled out her phone.
Papa, I'll be home late. Don't wait for dinner, okay?
No reply. Just the message marked as delivered.
She hoped he'd seen it.
They packed up in silence—well, she did most of the tidying. Hoshina simply lingered nearby, too cool to admit he was waiting but not quite rude enough to leave.
The school felt like a husk at night. Dark halls. Echoing steps. Fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. They stepped out of the side gate, the chill of a winter evening washing over them both.
They walked without speaking, side by side but not together. Riko stayed a step or two ahead, not speeding up to leave him behind but not slowing down, either. She didn't quite know what to do with his presence.
Their path just... happened to be the same.
Her eyes flicked down to her bandaged finger. It throbbed now—a deep, dull ache. She pressed it unconsciously, wincing at the sting, remembering belatedly she'd meant to pick up new bandages on the way home.
The drugstore had closed hours ago.
A quiet curse left her lips, barely audible. She shoved her hands in her blazer pockets.
A minute later, her stomach growled—loudly.
Of course. Of course her body would betray her now. She hadn't eaten since lunch, and even then, it had just been rice balls.
Hoshina glanced sideways. "Wow."
"Shut up," she muttered, cheeks burning.
He clicked his tongue. "C'mon. You're gonna pass out again if you don't eat something."
"I'll be fine."
"Yeah, that's what they all say before they hit the ground."
She glared at him, but he was already veering off the sidewalk, toward the soft neon hum of a convenience store tucked between two buildings.
Riko hesitated, then followed.
Inside, it was warm and fluorescent and smelled faintly of fried food and floor cleaner. She watched as Hoshina grabbed a hand basket and loaded it with food without asking—one onigiri, a hot can of coffee, miso soup in a cup, and a Band-Aid packet.
He handed the basket to her.
"You don't have to—"
"Don't get weird about it," he muttered, not meeting her eyes. "I'm not buying your groceries. I'll pay, you pay me back. Easy."
She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again. Her fingers wrapped around the tray.
"...Thanks," she said quietly.
They paid and left. Across the street was a small park, the kind with tired swings and cracked benches. They sat side by side in silence, their convenience store bags rustling between them.
She opened the soup and let the warmth settle in her hands like a balm.
It felt... good. Too good. Dangerous.
The kind of comfort that could make you cry.
But she didn't cry. She drank the soup, watching steam rise into the night air, and listened to the soft crunch of Hoshina biting into his food.
After a while, he said, "You should've just told that girl no."
She blinked. "What?"
"The one who asked you to help today. The one who didn't care that you were already busy."
Riko stared into her soup.
"I couldn't."
"Why not?"
"...Because people count on me."
"Even if it kills you?"
The question wasn't sarcastic. Just quiet.
She didn't answer.
They sat there, letting the hum of traffic and the rustle of the wind in the trees fill the gaps.
After a long silence, she said, "It's just easier to do it all than wait for someone... What if nobody came."
She wasn't sure why she said that. Or who she was really saying it to.
Hoshina didn't reply. Not right away.
The miso soup was long gone, the warm can of coffee already cold in her hand. They still sat at the same park bench, the plastic bags beside them rustling every now and then when the wind nudged them.
She was doing that thing again—pressing her thumb against the wrapped finger, grimacing just slightly.
"You really suck at bandaging," Hoshina said flatly.
Riko glanced up, blinking. "Huh?"
He reached out without asking and gently took her hand.
She stiffened.
"Relax," he said, tone somewhere between annoyed and... careful. "You're making it worse."
Her instinct was to snatch it back, but something about the way he held it—steady, warm, calloused—made her freeze instead.
He examined her finger with a soft frown. "You wrapped it too tight. And crooked."
"Well, sorry I'm not a first-aid genius."
"Don't talk. Just sit still."
From his coat pocket, he pulled out the Band-Aid packet he'd insisted she take. Tearing it open with his teeth, he carefully peeled away the mangled layers of her previous attempt.
Riko winced when the bandage tugged at the raw skin. "Ow—ow."
"I said sit still."
"You didn't say you were gonna rip it off like a psychopath—"
"Would you rather let it get infected and fall off?"
She pouted, which only made him smirk faintly. The smirk faded quickly though, replaced by a kind of serious focus she didn't expect.
He unwrapped a fresh strip and reached for her hand again, this time cradling it in his palm as he worked.
His touch wasn't hesitant, but it wasn't careless either. He moved slowly, gently, like he actually cared about doing it right.
And it made something in her chest ache.
"There," he said after a moment, smoothing down the edges of the bandage. "You'll live."
She looked at her hand. The bandage was perfectly straight. Not too tight. Neat.
"...Thanks."
He let her hand go. She missed the weight of it more than she wanted to admit.
They sat in silence again, but this time, it felt different.
Warmer.
He didn't tease her or smirk. Just leaned back, hands in his pockets, eyes tilted up toward the branches swaying above them.
"Stop trying to do everything alone, idiot," he said quietly.
Riko turned her head slowly toward him.
"You say yes to everyone but you forget to say yes to yourself."
She opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
And for once, she didn't argue.
But then he stood up, dusting crumbs from his pants. "Let's go. It's late."
She followed, the Band-Aids tucked into her pocket, the warmth from the soup fading. They walked again, side by side—but this time, she stayed a little closer.