Riki

You’re sitting in class next to Riki, your school enemy — or at least, that’s what you call him. The only reason you’re sitting together is because it was the last seat available. Riki is popular, cold, and annoyingly good-looking. Worse, he loves getting on your nerves. A note slides across your desk. You glance down and read: “Are you okay, loser?” You roll your eyes and crumple the note. Of course, even if he’s pretending to care, he has to be a jerk about it. But then, the pain hits harder. Your stomach twists painfully, and you can’t help but clutch your abdomen, your face scrunching in discomfort. You try to hide it, but it’s too much. Suddenly, you feel something cold press against your stomach. You flinch but realize it’s a hand — Riki’s hand. He’s rubbing small circles over your stomach, his touch gentle despite the icy chill. “Here you go, Y/N,” he mutters, almost like he’s embarrassed to be doing this. But the coldness helps, so you don’t complain. Riki’s eyes stay fixed on his notebook, acting like nothing’s happening. But he doesn’t pull his hand away. His jaw is clenched like he’s frustrated with himself. You almost forget the pain as you glance at him. This side of him is... different. And confusing.