✰ welcome to my personal studio lot—where every show i love gets rewritten, remixed, and reborn as its own little story. this series is a love letter to the comfort shows and films that raised me, the ones that stuck with me, and the characters i always wished i could write into a scene.
✰ each fic in this collection lives inside the world of a medium, but never as a copy-paste. all inspired by the original, but told completely my way.
✰ you don’t need to have watched a single show/film here to follow along, but if you have—it’s like watching the director’s cut.
roll out the red carpet. grab your popcorn. wander the lot.
the episodes start whenever you hit play.
✰ now streaming: the circle — nishimura riki
featured work: on my block (2018–2021)
✰ synopsis: four childhood best friends thought distance wouldn’t change them. but when you come back home to freeridge after your first year of college, a buried secret and gang politics collide—testing loyalty, love, and the block that raised them.
✰ mpaa rating: TV-MA — fictional universe (on my block / freeridge, california.), coming of age kinda, found family, morally grey characters, swearing, “secret relationship”, implied sexual content, angst, fluff, banter, drug use and mention, underage drinking, distorted self-image, jealousy, situationship to lovers, arguments, gun violence and gang shit, crying, socioeconomic commentary, crude humor (some boundary pushing, but what is art without such), breaking the 4th wall + more to add upon release
soundtrack to enhance reading experience: spotify | apple
start the show and hit play—
✰ pilot - fuck 12
✰ episode 2 - tba
✰ episode 3 - tba
✰ episode 4 - tba
✰ synopsis: four childhood best friends thought distance wouldn’t change them. but when you come back home to freeridge after your first year of college, a buried secret and gang politics collide—testing loyalty, love, and the block that raised them.
✰ run time: 17.1k words
✰ mpaa rating: TV-MA — fictional universe (on my block / freeridge, california.), coming of age kinda, found family, morally grey characters, swearing, “secret relationship”, implied sexual content, angst, fluff, banter, drug use and mention, underage drinking, distorted self-image, jealousy, situationship to lovers IM SORRY PLEASE, arguments, gun violence and gang shit, crying, summerween (as per gravity falls love that show), socioeconomic commentary, crude humor (some boundary pushing, but what is art without such), breaking the 4th wall a lil bit (it’s kinda fun i promise)
viewer's discretion advised.
✰ authors note!! (important): hey, welcome to the circle. this, alongside other fics in the future, will be apart of my “as seen on tv” series where i essentially make fics based on my favorite shows! i rmm doing this during my wattpad days but now it has gotten a name and a full blown makeover seeing as i am way more skilled than i was 5 years ago (or at least i’d like to think so).
these fics will literally be a mixture of me writing from memory of the show’s events, creating new scenes and dialogue (obvi, this won’t be a fic ON the show), creating whole new tales but just within the universe itself, etc. some may be oneshots, some may not be! i will make that judgment based on if i feel the fic calls for it or not. but the circle will have more than one. and there will be an upload schedule upon completion (i'm far along already dw), so make sure you turn that tv on.
this is a pilot!! more so, a temperature check to see how we're liking it thus far and if you want more.
you do not need to have watched the shows to understand fics. these can be read separately from the shows. though, it would be more fun!! i’d always recommend on my block as it is one of—if not—the greatest netflix series of all time. it’s all up to you.
soundtrack to enhance reading experience: spotify | apple
You’ve only been back in Freeridge, California for ten minutes and somehow your feet already know where to go.
You grew up on this block—this cracked sidewalk, that bent stop sign, the same sun-faded corner store where y’all used to beg for Slurpees after school. Childhood friends turned family: you, Shota, Leehan, and Riki. Neighbors since tricycles and scraped knees.
You walk up to Leehan’s house—still has the red folding chairs on the porch, the one with the wind chime—and see him and Shota inside through the window, arguing over something stupid like always.
At this point, you knew this house like you knew your own. If you were ever even really there anyway. You’ve spent summers, weekdays, weekends, school years—almost—in this home and it got to a point where you didn’t even have to knock. And if you did, then the door would always open for you because you had a key.
With a lively spirit, you barged inside—duffel bag in tow as you saw two out of your three best friends politicking on the couch. “Hey, assholes!”
Leehan paused in his movements, eyes widening just a bit before his jaw slacked. “You’re back…”
You dropped your duffel by the door with a now deflated look. “Did you expect me to stay in the woods for the whole summer?”
“Yes—I mean, no. No…we didn’t—no we didn’t. Right, Shota?” He turned to the younger, watching as he was on his phone—not even minding the interaction. “Dude!” Leehan snapped as he beamed a pillow at him.
With a thud, Shota’s phone hit the couch. “Yo—oh hey,” he looked at you with a smile. Standing up, opening his arms as he walked closer to you. “I missed you, Bun.”
“Yeah, at least someone did—ooh!” You grunted as Shota strong-armed you, wrapping his arms around you as he lifted you off your feet. “I missed you too, bro.”
He smiled at the words, “you smell like an airplane.”
Laughing, you wrapped your arms around him. Shota wasn’t always the brightest, but he was bright in every other way.
Shota, Leehan, and you all returned from your first years of college and though you didn’t get home right away—you were offered by your school’s writing club to go on a retreat with them after the semester finished. It was fun, enriching, and about five weeks. In a way, it was like summer camp for adults and it was nice to just unplug for a while after a hectic semester.
All three of you attended different schools. And while that was a hard summer’s end—you knew in some way it’d be good for you. The longest all four of you had been apart was a singular day since you were all seven years old. So eleven years later—after endless sleepovers, fights, makeups, robbing convenience stores blind, and late night phone calls—saying goodbye and seeing your cars go in different directions was the hardest thing you ever had to do.
“I missed you guys,” you said softly.
Leehan sighed, giving up his seeming distressed demeanor. “We missed you too,” he joined you and Shota as he wrapped his arms around you both. “How was everything?”
You were too enraptured in the comfort of being in the arms of your friends to realize that there was a third of your heart missing. “It was good…Learn-y, school-y.” Your feet still dangled in the air as you scanned the room; even eyeing the bathroom door for a moment hoping someone would come out. But knowing that it was early noon—Leehan’s little siblings were at day camp and his parents were working. None of them would be back until later in the day.
But even then, something felt hollow. Wrong. And you knew it when you only felt two pairs of arms around you. “Where’s Riki?”
Leehan’s arms stiffened first.
Not dramatically—just this tiny, telltale pause like his brain hit a speed bump. Shota let you down from his hug a little too fast, brushing his hands on his shorts like he suddenly needed something to do.
You frowned. “Hello? I said: where’s Riki?”
Leehan cleared his throat. “Uh…he’s, um…not here.”
“No shit. Where is he?”
Shota wouldn’t look at you. He kept glancing at Leehan like he wanted permission to talk.
“Guys.” You crossed your arms. “I’ve been home for ten minutes and you’re both acting like I asked you who killed Kennedy.”
Shota chimed in, “wasn’t it Harvey Lee Oswald?”
Leehan’s eyes didn’t leave you as he put his finger on Shota’s chest. “Lee Harvey Oswald and Riki’s…just not really around.” He shook his head as he walked to plop down on the couch.
You tilted your head in confusion. Eyes squinting as you had trouble connecting the dots. “What does that even mean? Did he move or some shit?” Crossing your arms as you approached him.
“We just—just drop it, man.” Leehan sighs. “Riki’s irrelevant.”
Your lips parted in surprise as you drew back. “Since—what? He’s been our best friend and neighbor since we were in the second grade and he’s suddenly old news?”
Shota interjected, “can you guys walk with me to the store? I want some chips.”
Without looking at him, you nodded to the door.
Shota tugged his hoodie on and headed out first, leaving you and Leehan in this thick, uncomfortable silence that felt wrong in a house you practically grew up in.
The walk to the corner store was familiar—same cracked pavement, same graffiti that had been there since middle school—but the energy between the three of you was off. Shota kept kicking a pebble like it personally offended him. Leehan jammed his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders tight.
Halfway down the block, you tried again.
“So we’re really not talking about it?”
Leehan exhaled hard through his nose. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
You snorted. “You’re lying. You’re bad at it. And you only get this weird when it has to do with some type of drama.”
Shota slowed his steps just enough for you to catch up. “Look…things got messy while you were gone.”
“What does that mean?”
Another shared look. You hated that look. It meant you’re not gonna like this.
Leehan ran a hand through his hair. “He wasn’t…he wasn’t really hanging with us much. We barely see him anymore.”
“So? We were away. He stayed back because of his stupid ass brother. We know that.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes.
Reo, Riki’s older brother, is heavily involved with a local gang—R12.
R for the family’s first initial. 12 for the street you lived on.
The kind everyone on the block pretends not to see but knows better than to cross. The name carries weight. Trouble, too.
When junior year rolled around, all four of you discussed college and looked forward to moving onto the next chapter of your lives. Shota, Leehan, Riki, and you all thought about attending the same school. Just fun, adulthood, parties, no rules.
But senior year happened and things got serious. Reo was all Riki had. Their mother passed years ago, father was hardly around and Reo had to sacrifice school to follow his birthright: the gang. The same gang everyone warned you about, the same one Riki swore he’d only ever be “adjacent” to.
It wasn’t a choice—more like gravity. Reo demanded more, and Riki got dragged with him. It started small. Doing quick runs, disappearing in the middle of sleepovers, seeing him with small bruises on his ribs.
While the three of you were filing your FAFSAs, Riki hadn’t even made his login yet. Because he foresaw it, he knew that it just wasn’t in the cards for him. Reo made sure of it.
“Man, fuck him. Who even cares…?” Shota rolled up his sleeves as he kept walking.
You shot him a look. “You care. Don’t start lying now. And don’t talk about him like that.”
He didn’t respond—just kept walking, steps quick, like he could outrun the conversation.
Leehan let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s more than just him going through that. There’s…other stuff.”
“No,” you snapped. “Explain it. Because right now you two sound like you’re mad at him for not juggling college applications while dodging gang members.”
Shota kicked at a crack in the sidewalk. “It’s not that.”
“So what is it?!” You snapped, throwing your hands up in anger. “Bro, I’m tired of the fucking riddles like come on! What the fuck happened between when y’all got back and now?” Like usual, your temper was starting to overcome you but you inhaled sharply before the heat ran down your neck and into your gut. “Why are you guys talking like he’s public enemy number one? You have five seconds before I find him myself.”
Leehan looked at Shota wearily, like he was asking for backup but knew he wasn’t getting any. Shota just shrugged, wide-eyed, like you handle it, bro, and suddenly the air felt thick enough to chew.
Leehan dragged a hand down his face. “Because he said some shit, okay?”
“That’s vague as hell.”
He tried again. “He told us something about you.”
You stared at him. “Like what? That I eat my toenails? That I punch idiots that take too long to get to the damn point? What?”
Shota winced like he knew a bomb was about to go off. “He told us that you two…hooked up before we left this year.”
Your mouth parted, breath catching. For a second, you didn’t even react—your brain was too busy finding scenarios in which it’d be solid to break into his house and strangle him while he was sleeping. Nah…the front door was too obvious. All of our houses only have one floor so maybe taking a crowbar to his window wouldn’t be such a bad start. Then the anger hit—fast, hot, bright.
It shot up your spine, tightened your jaw, curled your hands into fists before you even realized.
Leehan took one look at your face and actually stepped back. “Okay—alright—let’s not do the murdery face right now.”
“Murdery?” you scoffed. “Leehan, I’m being polite. You don’t wanna see murdery.”
Shota nodded too fast. “Yeah, she’s being polite, bro. Super polite.”
You didn’t even hear them. Your mind was still stuck on the image of Riki opening his stupid bedroom window at three in the morning to look at the street…only for you to be standing there with a crowbar like, hey bestie, remember me?
“Look,” Leehan put his hands on your shoulders as you heaved—a way of trying to push the anger below your feet. “We didn’t even believe him. We knew it was some bullshit and he didn’t tell anyone else. Just us and…just…” He pursed his lips. “Don’t worry, it’s contained.”
You shook your head as tears stung your eyes. Fists curled as you closed them and tapped your sneakers against the concrete. “I’m not gonna kill him.”
“Mhm, you’re not gonna kill him.” He encouraged.
“So you’re not gonna kill him?” Shota asked, a look of slight disbelief on his face.
“Not gonna.” You inhaled and exhaled smoothly as you opened your eyes. Letting the cool, Californian breeze run through your curly hair. “I’m going to chop his dick off with a cleaver and feed it to him.” You smiled as you backed up, booking it down the street.
Leehan didn’t even get to yell your name before you took off—full speed, booking it down the block with murder in your eyes.
“BRO—GO! GO!” Shota yelped, sprinting after you like his life depended on it.
Leehan was right behind him. “WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS! YOU CAN’T JUST—HEY!”
But you were already gone—cutting corners, hopping curbs, powered by pure betrayal and cardio-fueled vengeance.
By the time they caught up, you were stomping up Riki’s steps, fist balled, and Shota barely managed to grab your arm as you slammed your hand against the metal screen door.
“RIKI!” you barked, pounding again like the door owed you money. “OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”
The house door hummed a little as there seemed to be music playing from the inside. So loud that you don’t even think your banging made a difference.
“Dude, no—” Leehan walked forward, winded as he tried to reason with you. Shota grabbed him before he could advance further. “Just let her…”
Without another word, you forced the door open. The conversations inside cease abruptly. A huge group of guys, probably ranging from late teens to even late twenties, are scattered throughout the house as your view was clouded by thick, strong smelling smog. Through it, the opened door was able to let some of it out for you to see through. The living room was nearly trashed: beer bottles, ashes, wrappers all over the floor as your brows knitted tighter with every step you took inside.
The air was so dense you could taste it—like someone had hotboxed the entire zip code. The music thumped from somewhere deeper in the house, heavy bass rattling the picture frames and your last remaining nerve.
A couple dudes on the couch froze mid-laugh, eyes widening like they’d just seen a ghost with anger-management issues. One guy halfway through rolling a joint dropped the paper entirely. Another blinked at you through the haze, squinting like you were a hallucination he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Leehan and Shota hovered behind you in the doorway, both coughing like old men who’d wandered into the wrong nursing home.
“Goddamn,” Shota muttered. “Even my eyelashes are high.”
“Focus,” Leehan hissed.
You scanned the room—wrappers, beer bottles, someone’s shoe (just one), a chair flipped upside down like it hadn’t survived the last round of whatever chaos went down. And on the wall, barely visible through the smog, a neon light flickered BEER PONG CHAMPIONS, only barely hanging on.
Your voice came out low, deadly, and devastatingly clear:
“Where is Riki?”
The boys closest to you stiffened like you were pointing a gun, not a question. Their eyes darted toward the hallway as one of them lifted a shaky hand and pointed to the kitchen.
You didn’t even thank him.
You just stepped forward, shoulders squared, fury so sharp it cut through the haze better than the open door ever could.
Behind you, Leehan whispered, “Yeah, no, she’s gonna kill him.”
Shota sighed, resigned. “We can at least make sure it’s quick.” It was weird, kind of bizarre seeing you disappear into the smoke.
“Nuh-uh, I’m not going in there with those people.”
As you walked through and turned the corner to the kitchen, you saw him standing in a small crowd with a blunt hanging from his fingers. The moment his eyes found yours, they glazed over. You weren’t sure what exactly you saw in them. They were red, a little hazy and sleepy looking. But seeing you, blew it all.
“What the fuck is wrong with your brain?” You stomp over to him. “Huh?! I leave for writing camp and this is what I’m welcomed by?”
Riki blinks at you, clearly caught off guard by your sudden appearance. He quickly leaned off the surface as he put the blunt out on the counter—not caring if it left a mark. “Woah, hey—”
One of his other associates, a guy with some ridiculous fine line tattoos, cuts in. He eyes you up and down with a condescending smirk. “Who the hell is this chick?”
You turned to him. “This chick is Riki’s supposed childhood best friend. But I guess he wouldn’t know that.” Your attention goes back to Riki. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Disrespecting me like that to our friends?”
The guy stepped to you, his chest puffing up in anger. “Watch your mouth, little girl—”
“Alright,” Riki shook his head as he shifted his body to him. Shaking his head as his high was now fully blown. “You better watch your mouth,” his finger wagged slowly as it lightly rested on the elder’s chest. “Take that bass out of your voice, thank you.”
The tension in the room thickened, the music playing through the house seemed distant now as you watched Riki come to your defense. It wouldn’t be the first—a part of you hoped it wasn’t the last either. But the air seemed heavier than it did thirty seconds ago.
With a final sneer, the guy brushed Riki’s hand off. “Fine. But keep your friend under control, Riki. We don’t need any outsiders causing any problems.”
“I’m an outsider?!” You laugh humorlessly, “please ask—” you approached him angrily but before you could get closer, Riki grabbed you by the arm—his grip surprisingly strong. Pulling you aside in the kitchen “Yo, yo—calm the hell down.”
“Don’t tell me to—”
“Go outside.” He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t have to. It was the tone. Low. Firm. The same one he used back when you’d get worked up over group project partners who didn’t do their share. Except this time, the stakes were way higher than a C-minus.
You yanked your arm, ignoring how warm his hand had been. “I’m not going outside. I’m not done talking to you—”
“I am not having this conversation in front of them,” he hissed, eyes flicking toward the guys watching like it was premium cable. “Outside. Now.”
“Oh, so you can make decisions,” you snapped. “Interesting. Too bad you didn’t use that skill before opening your fat-ass mouth to Shota and Leehan.”
Riki’s jaw flexed. A muscle jumped. “Bro, you’re gonna get yourself jumped, and then I’m gonna have to deal with that and your yelling. Please. Outside.”
You scoffed, loud. “Cute of you to assume I wouldn’t beat their asses and yours.”
That earned you a few offended scoffs from the crowd.
Riki dragged a hand over his face, muttering something in Japanese you were ninety-eight percent sure meant “please, God, not right now.”
With a tight breath, he stepped closer—close enough that his voice dropped and you felt it more than heard it. “You’re in my brother’s house, surrounded by his people. You can’t just bark at everyone and hope it ends well.”
You glared up at him, heat radiating off your skin like you were a human wildfire. “Funny. Because you didn’t seem to care about the consequences when you told the guys we hooked up.”
His eyes widened—there it was. Guilt. Flashing across his face like lightning. “Out. Side.” He grit out. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
You stared him down, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like you were about to lunge first and think later. But the way he said it—low, edged, almost shaking—
Yeah. You knew that tone too.
So you spun on your heel and shoved past him, letting the front door slam behind you as you stepped into the warm air.
Riki followed seconds later, shutting the door softly this time. The music dulled to a muffled thump, the smoke-heavy air swapping out for something crisp, clearer…but still thick between you two.
He stayed a few steps away, hands planted on his hips as he stared at the concrete like it offended him. His voice was low, steadying. “What the fuck is wrong with your crazy ass?!”
“I’m not crazy! I’m angry! How could sit up with our friends and just—”
“What?! Do what?”
You shoved him hard but he barely stumbled. “Fucking dick! Forget that I ever knew you. I never wanna see or hear from you again! Just…” You hold up your hand in repugnance. “Ugh!” Turning to cross the street to go directly to your house, Riki catches your arm before you can make another step. “Stop, bitch—what part of ‘I fucking hate you’ do you not get?”
“Just let me explain! Look, before you at least try to walk out of my damn life—let me tell you—”
You nudged him. “Fuck off,” walking straight ahead and across the street to your house. Disappearing from the scene without another word. Riki groaned in annoyance, massaging his temples as he stood there. Torn between following you or respecting your desire for space.
But after a moment, he lifts the bottom of his black tank top, sighing into it before he’s approached by Shota and Leehan—both boys coming out of the bushes.
Shota emerged first, twigs in his hair, looking like he’d just barely survived a nature documentary. “…She’s alive, right?” he asked, glancing between the street you stormed across and Riki’s murder-face.
Leehan stepped out after him, brushing leaves off his shirt. “We weren’t hiding—we were…tactically monitoring.”
Riki shot them both a look. “You were crouched behind a bush.”
Shota whispered, “Tactical,” under his breath.
Leehan ignored him, eyes locked on Riki. “So? Did you fix it?”
Riki barked a humorless laugh. “Does it look fixed?”
Both boys assessed him. Shota: “…You look like you got hit by a car.” Leehan: “Twice.”
Riki dragged a hand over his face again, jaw tight, chest still rising a little too fast. “She won’t even let me talk. I tried to explain, and she—” he gestured vaguely toward your house—“walked off like I’m nothing to her.”
“That’s because you messed up,” Leehan said bluntly. “Like really messed up. Like…badly.”
Shota hummed. “Honestly, I thought she was gonna deck you. And I was kinda ready to join in.”
Riki kicked a pebble, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Please, I’ve been kicking your ass since the sandbox.”
Shota bristled instantly. “Bro, that was ONE time—”
“It was every time,” Riki shot back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You used to fall over if someone breathed too hard.”
Leehan waved a hand. “Yo, can we circle back to the part where you detonated your entire friendship in under thirty seconds?”
Riki’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The high was gone. The adrenaline was gone. All that was left was that tight ache in his chest, like someone was pulling each rib inward. “I didn’t mean for her to find out like that,” he muttered.
Leehan deadpanned, “you told us.”
“Yeah, because you’re my boys,” Riki snapped, pacing a short line on the sidewalk. “I didn’t think it’d turn into some weird telephone game while she was gone!”
“But you lied on your dick though. What type of cornball does that?” Shota shrugged obviously.
“I didn’t—” He inhaled, his fists curling up as he punched his palm—leaving it stinging.
Leehan sighed. “So you’re saying y’all fucked. She clearly holds the sentiment that you didn’t so…who’s lying?” He opened his hands, prepared to receive any type of clarity on the situation.
“It’s not even about who’s lying, how do I make her not angry enough to not want to punch me in the face?” He gestured to your house. “Bro, her temper is insane! She’s like a fucking chihuahua—”
Shota clapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes going wide. “Ooh, I’m telling on you.”
Leehan nodded gravely. “Yeah, we’re really gonna jump your ass then.”
Riki groaned, dragging both hands over his face. “I didn’t mean—I’m just saying she bites first and thinks later! She’s like—like—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Shota warned. “For your own safety.”
Riki let his hands drop, exasperated. “I’m being serious. She’s not gonna listen to me. She won’t even stand still long enough for me to get a sentence out. I—” He huffed. “I panicked, okay? I shouldn’t have said we—”
“Hooked up?” Leehan offered.
Riki shot him a dirty look. “Shut up. I know it was stupid.”
Shota crossed his arms. “Bro, she finished the year. She spends an extra few weeks on an isolated writing retreat. Missing time with us for whatever reason. She came home ready to hug you. And instead she got you with a blunt, a house full of gang extras, and a rumor that you two were bumping uglies behind her back. Of course she’s mad.”
Riki winced. “…Yeah.”
Leehan’s voice firm. “So start with the truth.”
Riki blinked at him like that was the most unreasonable suggestion ever. “What truth?”
“The real one,” Leehan said. “You said something happened. She said nothing happened. So which one is it? What are we actually dealing with here?”
Riki’s eyes flicked toward your house again—like the answer was written behind your window.
Shota said absentmindedly, lips pursed as he looked down at the dirt beneath his shoes. “She didn’t say nothing happened.”
“What?” Leehan furrowed his brows.
“She just got mad. She never said what did or didn’t happen.”
Riki walked backwards to his house, arms spread in vindication. “Hm. And you fuckers didn’t believe me.”
Leehan rolled his eyes so hard it was audible. “Relax, Socrates. All she confirmed is that she hates your guts.”
Shota pointed at Riki with a half-shrug. “Yeah, bro, don’t act like this is some big ‘gotcha.’ She didn’t say you were lying…but she also looked ready to kick your shit in.”
Riki dropped his arms, irritation sliding back in. “Still. None of you believed me.”
“Because your track record is dogshit,” Leehan said. “You lie about stupid shit all the time. One time you said you could backflip off Shota’s porch and you landed on his mom’s hibiscus.”
“Hey, that flowerbed recovered,” Riki muttered.
“No, it didn’t,” Shota said. “She still brings it up at family dinners.”
Riki threw his head back with a groan. “Bro, can we stay on topic?”
Leehan crossed his arms. “Cool. That means we’re back to the original question: what actually went down?”
Riki’s jaw ticked. He turned slightly, like the angle would help him dodge the question.
Shota wasn’t letting him. “Bro. We’ve known you since you had Lego hair. Just spit it out.”
A long beat.
Riki’s tongue pressed against his cheek, eyes dropping to the sidewalk. “I’ll catch y’all later.” He turned around fully to walk back up his steps.
“Wh—hey!” Shota calls out.
Shota jogged after him, grabbing the back of his tank like a mom snagging a toddler about to run into traffic. “You are not gonna hit us with the dramatic exit when you’re the one who started this whole novella.”
Riki yanked his shirt free with a scoff. “I didn’t start anything—”
“You literally did,” Leehan yelled from the sidewalk. “You started it with your mouth. And continued it with your mouth. And escalated it with your…actually? Still your mouth.”
Riki spun around, eyes wide, offended. “Can the both of you get off my jock? Damn!”
Shota pointed at him, calm and judgmental like an annoyed substitute teacher. “No. Because you’re being a loser. And I say that with love.”
Riki lifted both hands to his face, dragging them down like he could physically wipe the embarrassment off. “Y’all are the worst friends alive.”
“And yet,” Leehan said, stepping closer, “we’re the only ones who can save your dumbass from getting rocked by your girl.”
“She’s not my girl!” Riki snapped instantly, which absolutely no one believed.
Both boys blinked at him like he’d just said the sky was green.
Shota said. “And I’m Scooby Doo.”
Leehan pointed at the door behind Riki. “Stop stalling. We asked what happened. You clearly don’t want to say it. Why?”
Riki’s throat bobbed.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Shifted his weight.
Looked everywhere except at them.
Then booked it right into the house. Locking the door behind him with a click.
Shota and Leehan just stared at the locked door like it had personally offended them.
A beat.
Then another.
“…Did he just—?” Shota blinked.
“Yeah,” Leehan said flatly. “He ran.”
—
The rest of the night was a weird one. It felt like your college nights. Locked away in your space, biding the time until you were finally set free from the deadlines and expectations and able to leave. To be with your family but your friends most importantly.
All three of those boys meant something differently to you; and it almost made you worry about how your life would’ve transpired if you hadn’t been put next to them for talking too much.
Leehan was the diplomat. The water to everyone’s fire as the eldest one of the quartet. The one that spoke when you four were sent to the principal’s office for setting off a stinkbomb in Mrs. Jenson’s art class.
Shota was always in his own world. But he meant it for all of you. He was nearly impossible to hate to the point where if you were too mean to him, you’d start crying. Not only was he unreasonably peculiar at all times, he was the friend that you’d call in the middle of the night just to talk and he’d answer like he wasn’t mid rapid eye movement.
Riki was always very tricky. The rhyme was not intended, I promise. He was the wild card. The spark. The kid who lived like he had a personal vendetta against boredom. He’d drag you into trouble with a grin, swear you were overreacting, and then somehow sweet-talk the consequences down to a warning. He could charm adults, piss off authority, and get the three of you laughing in the same breath.
But he was also the one who always noticed.
When you were too quiet. When your knee bounced under the desk. When you smiled but didn’t mean it.
He’d nudge your foot with his sneaker. Or toss you a note. Or mouth a stupid joke until you cracked.
Riki was complicated. Not in the dramatic way—more in the “why does your chest feel weird when he looks at you too long” way.
Tonight he had you feeling everything except calm. You lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling like it contained answers or at least a refund policy for emotional tax. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that made your thoughts echo.
Shota, Leehan, Riki. Your boys. Your constants. Your headaches.
You exhaled slowly, sinking deeper into your mattress. You’d kill them before you ever lost them. Probably.
Just then, you nearly jumped out of your skin as you heard a sharp knock on your window. Turning your head to the right, you almost fell off your bed as Riki stood there—tall and looming over your window in a black hoodie.
He lifted a hand and knocked again—lighter this time, like that made it any less insane.
You hissed under your breath, scrambling off the bed and practically tripping over your blanket as you marched to the window. Sliding it up, you whispered harshly, “Are you out of your mind?!”
Riki blinked at you, equal parts guilty and stubborn. “You weren’t answering your phone.”
“So your next idea was breaking into my house?”
“It’s not breaking in if the window’s unlocked,” he shrugged, already hooking his fingers over the sill like he was about to climb in whether you liked it or not.
You smacked his hand. “Try it and I’m calling the cops.”
“You won’t.”
“I absolutely will.”
“You won’t,” he repeated, annoyingly sure.
He leaned closer, breath puffing in the cool night air. “Can you just—” His jaw clenched. “Let me talk to you.”
You crossed your arms. “Talk from out there.”
Riki shot you a look like you were being intentionally difficult. (You were.) “It’s cold.”
“It’s a Californian summer night, it’s sweater weather at best.” You shrug haphazardly.
“I’m anemic.”
“No. I’m anemic.”
“Same difference.”
“Go.” You lightly pushed him back and out of the windowsill. “Don’t you have gang members to go rob a bank with, hard-ass?”
Riki’s face twisted like you’d just accused him of running a puppy-smuggling ring. “Rob a—what?!” he whisper-yelled, gripping the window frame before you could shut it. “You think I’d rob a bank with them? Half those dudes can’t even do basic math!”
“Sounds like a personal problem,” you said, trying to pry his fingers off the sill.
He held on tighter.
You glared. He glared back, a standoff worthy of a Western, except you were in pajamas and he looked like a raccoon rifling through trash.
“Why are you still here?” you hissed.
“Because,” he snapped back in a whisper, “my name is getting dragged through the mud, my best friend hates me, my other two best friends think I’m an idiot—”
“They’re right.”
“—and you still won’t let me explain!”
You gripped the window and started lowering it—slowly, deliberately—like a villain pressing a big red button.
Riki’s eyes went huge. “Don’t you—don’t you dare close this window on me.”
You kept lowering it.
“Bro—” Down another inch.
“Are you serious right now—” Another inch.
He shoved his hand under the frame, blocking it like some tragic action hero trying to stop a garage door from crushing him. “I’m not finished!”
“You said plenty,” you replied, voice flat as drywall. “So we’re even.”
“I didn’t get to say anything!” he whisper-yelled, face squished awkwardly under the descending window. “Okay—I said a little. But not in the way you think—ow, that’s my knuckle—can you just—STOP—”
You paused just long enough for him to yank his hand out before he lost a finger.
He immediately slapped both palms on the windowsill, breathless, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “What is wrong with you?!”
“You came to my window at—” you checked the analog clock on the wall, “—one forty-six in the morning looking like you crawled out of a crime documentary and I’m the problem?”
He pointed at you, indignant. “Yes!”
You pushed the window down another inch. Closing it.
He groaned, “oh come on you can’t—” He watched you lower the blinds, your narrowed eyes the last thing he saw before you closed the curtains. “Please?” Riki sighed, leaning against the window as he called out. “Come on, open up for me? Please—”
The TV you had on only increased in volume.
Riki’s head thunked against the glass like he was trying to transfer his brain cells through osmosis. “Are you—are you SERIOUS right now? You’re gonna drown me out with The OC?!”
You didn’t answer.
Cue the theme music swelling louder.
“Boo.” Knock, knock, knock. “Bunnyboo, I know you hear me.”
Silence.
Another knock, faster. “Bro, don’t do me like this. At least yell at me through the glass. Throw something. Flip me off. Give me anything!”
You turned the TV up another two notches.
He pressed his forehead to the window again, palms flat, voice dropping low—half pleading, half warning. “Don’t make me climb in here. I swear to God, I will break in like a raccoon with a vendetta—”
A pillow smacked the glass from inside—the clanging of the blinds as it hit the hard surface.
He flinched. “…Okay. Message received.”
But he didn’t leave.
He stayed right there—pacing once, twice—before finally planting himself on the little strip of concrete beneath your window, sitting down like he paid rent there. Legs stretched out, hoodie bunched at his elbows, head tipped back against your siding. “Come on…” He whispered to himself.
He rubbed both hands over his face, dragging down like he could physically peel the stress off. “I’m gonna die out here,” he muttered. “She’s actually gonna let me freeze to death on suburban concrete. Damn.”
You muted the TV for two seconds—just long enough for him to perk up—before turning it right back on. He deflated so hard you could practically hear it.
“Wow,” he said to the night sky. “She’s evil. She’s actually evil. And she wonders why I lie awake at night thinking about—”
You whacked the window again with another pillow.
He jumped. “HEY—okay, okay! I take it back! You’re not evil, you’re just—” He paused, searching for something nice. “—temperamental.”
Another pillow hit the glass.
He held both hands up like he was being detained. “How many pillows do you have?!”
For a moment, he just sat there, breathing out shaky frustration, knees bent, arms draped loosely over them. The porch light cast him in soft gold, and for once he didn’t look like the loudmouthed, idiotic menace who’d started this whole mess.
He looked like someone who’d been losing his mind over you all night. And then—quietly, almost too quiet: “…Boo. Please let me fix this.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tapping anxiously.
“I didn’t tell them what you think I did,” he said, softer. “I swear. I didn’t make you look stupid. I didn’t—” His voice caught. “I didn’t disrespect you. Not the way you’re imagining.”
You froze behind the blinds.
He exhaled like the words tasted bitter. “I didn’t even tell them everything. Not the stuff that…mattered.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the roots.
“You think I’m out here playing around,” he said. “But I’m not. And I don’t know how to prove that when you won’t open the damn window.”
You didn’t move. He didn’t expect you to.
He tilted his head back against the siding again, eyes closing, breath leaving him in a quiet, frustrated laugh. “Fine,” he murmured. “I’ll sit out here all night if I have to.”
A pause.
“Knowing my dumbass? I probably will.”
Then, he heard movement from inside the house. Leaning into the siding did he lean up as his heart rate jumped. He stood up, brushing his sweats off as he walked around the front of the house. Only for him to be met with your mom—robe, bonnet, and sleepy-face in tow.
Riki froze mid-step, eyes widening like he’d just walked into a horror scene. “Uh…hi?” His voice cracked somewhere between sheepish and terrified.
Your mom blinked at him, hands on her hips, taking in the hoodie, the sweatpants, the midnight energy radiating off him like a storm cloud. “Riki Nishimura,” she said slowly, voice low but deadly calm. “What exactly are you doing on my lawn at—” she glanced at her phone—“almost two in the morning?”
“I—uh—” He raised his hands like a surrendering cartoon character. “I had to go to the store for Reo. I forgot my keys and now I’m locked out…” This wouldn’t be the first time he’s lied to your mom, it was just about whether she’d believe him. “I called him a few times and he’s not answering so…”
“So…you couldn’t go to either of the other boy’s houses? You had to come to my daughter’s?”
Riki’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He looked like a fish trying to talk its way out of being dinner. “Well—okay—hear me out,” he blurted, already panicking. “I would sleep at Shota’s but he snores insanely loud and the last time I did, he almost suffocated from the pillow I put over his face. And Leehan is entirely too particular about how I sleep like he wants the bed split right in—”
Your mom gave him a look so dry it could’ve dehydrated a cactus. “Inside. Now. Before I start asking real questions.”
Riki nodded so fast his hood nearly flew off. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”
But as he followed her toward the door, he couldn’t stop the tiny, hopeful glance he threw toward your window—praying you hadn’t heard any of that, even though he knew deep down…you definitely had.
He kicked his shoes off as he entered, “I promise I’ll be out—” he whispered.
“Shut up, you’re not a guest here. I love you, goodnight.” She yawned as she walked the opposite way to her room.
“Love you too, sleep well.” He whispered back.
Riki stood in the hallway like someone who’d just been adopted and arrested in the same breath. He watched your mom disappear down the hall, the soft shuffle of her slippers fading.
He took two small steps forward. Then froze when the floorboard under him squeaked loud enough to wake the dead. He saw your shadow moving around in your room from the small sliver of light that poked through the gap of the frame and door itself. His gut told him to speed up down the hall. To which he did—swiftly—before you could close the door on him.
But he beat you there, wedging himself in. “Gotcha.” He beamed, shimmying through as he closed it softly behind him.
“Are you crazy?” You whisper-yelled. “Coming into my house like this? Lying to my mom?!”
“I’m just as crazy as you are.” He unzipped his hoodie, tossing it onto the rack on your closet door. “Don’t act like you haven’t lied to Reo however many times—”
“That’s different. If we’re gonna be out late or something but—”
“Look, I don’t care about any of that. I came to fix things with you.” He stepped forward, ensuring you looked up at him. “Just hear me out…two minutes.” You studied him—hair messy from the wind, shirt rumpled, socks mismatched, eyes big and tired and a little frantic. You hated how familiar he looked in your room. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d slipped in after midnight.
“You get one.” You nod once. “And take off those dirty ass pants.” You sighed as you turned to your drawers. Scouring until you landed on a clean pair of black sweats.
With some rustling behind you, Riki stripped out of his pants. Revealing his black Calvin Klein boxers that you loved so much. That he knew you went crazy for.
“…Did you seriously just—?”
“What?” he said, way too innocent for someone in nothing but briefs in your bedroom at two in the morning. “You told me to take ‘em off.”
“I meant go change in the bathroom, you psychopath.”
He blinked. “Why would I walk all the way to the bathroom when your room is right here?”
You stared at him.
He stared back like this was the most logical sentence any human had ever spoken.
“Riki,” you said slowly, pointing the sweats at him like a weapon. “Put these on before I throw holy water at you.”
He snatched the pair from your hand with a tiny smirk—one he tried (and failed) to hide by looking down. “You always give me the soft ones,” he murmured, pulling them on.
“Well they’re yours…” you sigh, plopping right onto the edge of your bed.
He froze mid–pull, waistband halfway up his hips. “…What?”
You blinked at him. “What, what?”
He let the rest of the sweats snap into place, slow, like his brain was rebooting. “Did you just say they’re mine?”
You groaned, falling back on your palms. “Yes, Riki, congratulations, you own a pair of cotton-poly blend sweatpants. Don’t let it go to your head. So what? You’ve been here like a trillion times.”
But of course it did. You watched the shift happen in real time—his shoulders relaxing, his mouth tugging into that stupid boyish half‑smile he only ever got when he felt special.
He toed his discarded pants into a pile and padded over to you, the soft thud of his mismatched socks making him look criminally at-home in your space. “They’re mine,” he repeated, quieter this time. Like he’d just been handed a family heirloom instead of laundry.
You rolled your eyes. “Riki, don’t get sentimental, it’s literally the third time you’ve forgotten to take them back.”
He dropped down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “Still counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does,” he said, leaning back on his hands so his arm pressed along yours. “‘Cause that means when I come over…you expect me to stay.”
Your breath stuttered—just barely, but enough.
His voice softened. “And I know you’re pissed. And I know you’re pretending you’re not glad I’m here.” A beat. “But you said they’re mine.”
He nudged your knee with his. “Let me explain, Boo. Please.”
Your knee bounced, nerves bubbling up in the pit of your stomach as you looked down at your hands in your lap. “You promised, Riki. That you wouldn’t tell anyone what happened that night.”
Riki’s breath caught—not loud, not dramatic, just this tiny break in his chest like your words had clipped something vital. He didn’t move at first. Just stared at you, jaw set, eyes searching your profile like the truth might be written somewhere on your cheek. “I…I didn’t tell them in a malicious way.”
You turned your head as your anger bubbled up in your stomach. But he knew how to placate you. “No, no, no…listen. Look at me.” He gently grabbed your shoulders to turn you to face him. “Damn, you’re like a pitbull.”
You slapped his hands off your shoulders instantly. “Don’t call me a pitbull.”
“You are a pitbull,” he shot back, whisper‑yelling. “Small. Angry. Bites without warning.”
“I’m literally taller than you,” you snapped.
“You are not taller than—okay, you know what, that’s not the point.” He dragged a hand down his face, regrouping, then looked at you with that maddening mix of exasperation and adoration that made you want to smack him and kiss him in the same breath. “Listen to what I’m saying.”
You crossed your arms so hard your shoulders creaked.
He leaned forward, matching your intensity with his own. “I was just doing it for your protection.” He watched your face blend into confusion. “Not from the guys, from the guys my brother deals with.”
“Um…?”
“While you were gone, some of them were saying that they were gonna get at you when you came back. Obviously by that point, me and you already…” He trailed off. “And it was under wraps. But the way they were talking,” he shook his head, his tongue poking his cheek as he recalled the repulsive language. “I had to ‘claim’ you. Let them know you were mine.”
“I’m not an object, Riki.”
“I know, Boo. I know. I didn’t wanna put you in that position but I had to for the sake of those guys leaving you alone when you got back.”
Your brows pulled together, the heat in your chest shifting—still anger, but now tangled with something colder, sharper. “That’s not protection,” you said quietly.
Riki winced like you’d flicked him right in the soul. “I know. I know that. And if there was any other way—literally any—I would’ve taken it.”
You stared at him, trying to read past the excuses, past the dramatics, past the Riki-isms he wrapped himself in like bubble wrap. But his eyes weren’t dodging. Nor were they defensive. Just tired. And tense. And…a little fearful.
Your voice softened a notch. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
He huffed out a laugh—dry, humorless, one shoulder lifting. “Because you’d say exactly what you’re saying now. That I don’t get to ‘claim’ you. That you’re not a trophy. That you don’t need saving.” He added, “plus by that time you were at your retreat, didn’t have your phone. Was I supposed to send a smoke signal? Letter in a bottle?”
“It would’ve been appreciated.” You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I can’t stand you sometimes.”
Riki groaned, “dude, you’re so immature.”
“Me?!” You gasped, “I’m immature yet you fold under zero pressure and stutter when you lie?”
“Don’t do that. We’re grown now, I shouldn’t even be lying to anybody.”
“Right. So telling your groupies about our night of passion was sooo grown?”
He smiled, boyishly. “So you thought there was passion?” Slowing reaching his hand over to your waist before you smacked it away.
“No! I’m just saying that you’re a dick and never consider me for anything. Not me, Leehan, or Shota.”
Riki looked at you like you had three heads. “Are you—what are you talking about?”
You scoffed, “how did they even find out? Leehan told me that only he and Shota knew. Now you’re saying that—”
“I told them after the fact so they wouldn’t have to hear it from anybody else!” He stood up, “gosh, how low do you think I am? Like, do you really think I’m just some loser?”
Your head snapped up at his tone. He wasn’t yelling, but the hurt in his voice sliced sharp enough.
“Riki, that’s not—”
“No, because you’re talking like I’m out here giving press conferences about our business.” He pointed at himself, brows furrowed, genuinely offended. “You think I’d embarrass you like that? You think I’d embarrass myself like that?”
You opened your mouth, shut it, then crossed your arms tighter. “I think you do dumb things without thinking.”
His laugh was one sharp exhale. “Yeah? So do you.”
“That is not the point—”
“It is,” he cut in, stepping closer, eyes locked on yours with that frustrating intensity that made your stomach flip. “Because you’re acting like I’m some clown who doesn’t care about you. Like I’d run around bragging about us to look cool. That’s not me. That’s never been me.”
You faltered. Just a hiccup. Barely noticeable—except he noticed everything. “So telling people about us having sex on a summer night—”
“God, what do you not get?!” He put his hands out in frustration, “I didn’t tell anyone for fun! Or to lie on my dick—not that it was even a lie. I did it because otherwise, you’d have some weird ass guys pushing up on you and I can’t have that. For my sanity or your safety.”
You sighed dramatically, crossing your arms as you looked away from him. Turning your head away like you were a child.
“Look at me.” Riki said firmly but to no avail.
“Hm.” You shrugged as you crossed your legs. Your bare legs rubbing together over your checkered pajama shorts.
He shook his head. “Dude, you need to grow the fuck up and stop acting like a petulant child.”
You snapped your head back toward him so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. “Petulant?” you echoed, voice shooting up an octave. “Oh, wow. Big word. Did you eat a dictionary for breakfast or—”
“See?” he barked, throwing his hands up. “That! That right there!”
“What right there?!”
“You act like you don’t care but then you get mad like you care the most.” He pointed at you like you were a math problem he’d been failing for years. “You can’t even look at me without doing the dramatic little eye-roll-head-turn combo—”
“I do not—”
“You do,” he cut in, stepping forward, voice firm, eyes sharp. “You’re doing it right now.”
Your jaw dropped. “I am not—”
“You are,” he repeated, exasperated beyond mortal comprehension. “And it’s fine—like, it’s actually kinda cute when you’re not actively trying to ruin my life—but right now? Right now I need you to stop pretending you’re five years old and actually hear me.”
You scoffed so loud the walls probably shook. “Five years old? Riki, I swear to God—”
“No, seriously.” He crouched down a bit so he was more level with you, eyes narrowing just enough to make your pulse jump. “Grow. Up.”
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened.
You were halfway to telling him off when he added, annoyingly soft:
“I’m trying to talk to you. Not fight. Not yell. Talk. But you’re making it impossible.”
You blinked at him, chest tight, fury and embarrassment and something dangerously close to vulnerability twisting together.
His voice dropped low. “Stop looking away from me. I hate when you do that.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He leaned in, jaw tight. “And it makes me feel like you don’t care.”
That sentence froze you mid-breath. “…What?” you whispered.
Your heartbeat kicked up so loudly you were sure he could hear it. You sat there, arms crossed, shoulders tense, but eyes finally—finally—on him.
Riki looked back at you with an honesty that stripped every smart remark right off your tongue.
“Stop acting like I’m some villain,” he murmured. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.” He reached up, brushing a curl that fell out of your ponytail—behind your ear. “And with that funky ass temper, I can’t get a word in.”
You stare at him for a moment, tilting your chin to the side his hand was on as your eyes flit to the side. Like you were almost embarrassed to enjoy physical touch from him. “Riki.”
“Yes?”
“How long have you known me for? Do you remember?”
His hand froze halfway down your cheek like you’d just hit him with a pop quiz he absolutely did not study for.
“…Huh?” he blinked.
You sighed, leveling him with a stare that could’ve melted steel. “How long have you known me? Since when?”
Riki straightened, shoulders pulling back as if bracing for impact. “Since we were seven.”
“And in all those years,” you continued, voice low, “has there ever been a moment where my mouth hasn’t gotten me or one of us into some type of trouble?”
He pursed his lips in thought, his eyes seeming to search through the crevices of his brain. “Um…no not really.” Riki looked back from ages seven to twenty—trying to assess when your sharp tongue and impulsive actions hadn’t done them well.
“See?” You smiled in jest. “And you guys just accept me for me. This is who I am. And the fact that you hate it now all of a sudden—”
Riki rolls his eyes, frustration flaring in his chest. “No one’s saying we don’t accept you,” he retorts, his tone firm. “But just because we’ve put up with your bullshit for years doesn’t mean you can’t be held accountable for your words and actions. This isn’t some free pass to act like a brat whenever you want.”
“Yes it is!” You laugh, “because I accept you for all your shit. You’re like a diet version of me.”
Riki’s whole face twisted, “please. You’re the most mini-me of anyone I know.”
“Are you trying to son me?”
Riki laughed, leaning into you as he laid his head on your shoulder. “You are my son, you wanna be like me soooo bad.”
You shoved his forehead lightly. “Shut up.”
He blinked at you, affronted. “Don’t hit your daddy.”
You smacked him again.
“HEY—”
“Keep talking like that,” you warned, “and I’m putting you in the home early.”
He leaned back, pointing at you like you were the crazy one. “You can’t put me in the home. You’re my dependent.”
“Riki, I am older than you.”
“That’s what makes this so embarrassing for you,” he said, absolutely delighted with himself. “Imagine being older and still being my mini-me.”
Your eye twitched so violently he had to bite back a laugh.
Then he softened, just a little—head tilting, voice dropping. “Come on, Boo. I’m messing with you.” His shoulder nudged yours. “You know I don’t think of you like that.” Leaning his head back on your shoulder as he reached down for your hand. “I’m sorry, again.”
You tried—tried—to keep your spine stiff, arms crossed, jaw tight. But the second his fingers brushed yours, your whole posture betrayed you. Your hand didn’t curl around his, but it didn’t pull away either. It just…sat there. Suspiciously compliant.
You exhaled, staring at the wall like it might give you divine guidance.
“I know.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I messed up. I scared you. I made you feel played. I talked too much, I didn’t talk enough—I know.” He lifted his head just enough to look at you. “But I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear to God, Boo, every dumb thing I did was me trying to keep you safe.”
Your throat tightened despite every effort to swallow the feeling down.
“And I know you don’t like being protected,” he added, voice threading into something shy. “But you matter to me. In a way that makes it hard to think straight sometimes.”
Ever since you could remember meeting him, Riki had been your protector. And the worst part? He’d never even asked for the job.
He just…took it.
The kid who yanked you out of trouble before you even recognized it. The teenager who stood in front of you during every argument you started. The grown man now sitting in your bedroom at two in the damn morning, wearing your/his pants and looking at you like you were the whole reason he learned how to fight in the first place.
His knuckles grazed your jaw as he leaned in, nudging your cheek with his nose the way he always did when he was trying to make you smile. It worked—of course it did—your laugh spilling out small and helpless. “Your hero, your knight…” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. The smile that followed wasn’t cocky or teasing, but something almost…bashful. Like he couldn’t believe he’d earned the right to say it out loud. “Remember?”
But the word hero didn’t even begin to cover it.
He’d been a shadow and a shield, a tether and a torch—always one step ahead of whatever chaos you were about to fling yourself into. He carried your messes like they weighed nothing, shouldered your storms like they were summer rain. Half the time you wondered if he’d been assigned to you at birth, like some overworked guardian angel who accidentally got attached.
And you did remember. Every version of him. Every moment he’d stepped between you and the world like it was instinct. Like saving you was simply something he knew how to do—before he even knew how to save himself.
“Mhm,” you nodded—barely, quietly, like admitting it too loudly might crack something wide open between you.
His eyes softened even more at that tiny sound, as if your agreement carried an entire lifetime of shared secrets. His fingers slipped from your jaw to the side of your neck, feather-light, tracing the spot he always touched when he was trying to ground you…or ground himself. You could feel the tremor hiding in his thumb. He was steady for everyone else—impenetrable, unshakable—but with you? His armor always rattled just a little.
“Good,” he whispered, almost like he needed reassurance. Like he was afraid you might’ve forgotten who he’d always tried to be for you.
You hadn’t. God, you hadn’t.
If anything, the memories rose up all at once—him grabbing your sleeve before you stepped into the street at eight years old, him taking the blame for something you’d said at twelve, him pulling you behind him during the campfire argument at fifteen, eyes dark and jaw set like he’d burn the whole forest down before he let someone talk to you sideways. Him now, sitting inches from you, still trying to guard you from something invisible in the room.
He leaned in a little closer, forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice lowering like the hour demanded honesty. “I always wanted to be that for you,” he said. “Even when you didn’t need me to be.”
Your chest tightened—not painfully, but in that terrifyingly sweet way that told you he meant every word. “It’s not like I need you anyway…” You smile shyly as you nudge him with your elbow.
“No?” He laughed, “you don’t need me, Boo?” He beamed, wrapping his arms around your waist—pulling your side into him.
You shook your head, “nope—oof! Dude—”
Burying his face into your neck as he blew raspberries into it, he pulled you back flat onto the bed as you both laughed. You hit the mattress with a soft thud, breath catching in your throat before dissolving into helpless laughter. “Riki—stop—!” you wheezed, kicking a leg uselessly as he doubled down, arms locked around you like he’d been waiting all night for an excuse to tackle you.
He blew another loud, obnoxious raspberry against your neck, the kind that made your whole body jolt. “Don’t need me, huh?” he taunted, his words muffled against your skin as he climbed on top of you. “Say it again. Go ahead. I dare you.”
You tried to twist away, but his grip only tightened, warm and solid and stupidly comforting. “I don’t—!” you squeaked, halfway grinning, halfway choking on your own breath. “I don’t need—Riki, seriously—!”
“Liar,” he declared, without even giving you a chance to finish, pressing his forehead into the curve of your shoulder like you were some sort of pillow he owned. “Biggest liar I’ve ever met.”
You fought him for another second—maybe two—before your muscles gave out in that familiar way they always did around him. The laughter faded into a soft, breathless quiet, the room still humming with the echo of it. His weight settled over you, heavy and warm, like he’d decided this was his new home address.
He exhaled against your neck, softer this time—pressing a gentle kiss there before he raised his head. Nose to nose with you as you both smiled when your eyes met, his voice dropping back to something unbearably gentle. “How was school? You haven’t found my replacement yet, huh?”
“Nuh-uh…no one could ever replace you.”
His lips quirked—not into that smug little smirk he wore when he was winning, but something smaller, almost startled. Like he hadn’t expected you to hand him an answer that soft, that honest, without putting up some kind of fight first.
His fingers brushed your waist, thumb tracing slow, unconscious circles like he was memorizing the shape of you. “Yeah?” he murmured, the word barely more than a breath. “You saying I’m…irreplaceable?”
You rolled your eyes, but it came out ruined—too fond, too warm. “That’s literally what ‘no one could ever replace you’ means.”
His thumb paused mid-circle on your waist, the warmth of his touch lingering like a question he was scared to ask out loud.
“Yeah, but…” he said slowly, eyes flicking over your face as if trying to read something between your lashes. “You say stuff like that and then pretend we’re just—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Nothing.”
Your breath caught. Not because he was wrong, but because he was painfully, dangerously right. “We are nothing,” you said a little too quickly, a little too defensively. “Like—we have to be. You know how it’d look if anyone found out.”
Riki stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was green. “How it’d look to who? Our friends?”
“Yes!” You sat up slightly, annoyed that he wasn’t getting it. “If they think I’m sneaking around with you, it’s gonna make everything weird. I don’t want Leehan or Shota or anybody else thinking there’s…a thing. I don’t want a rift.”
“A rift,” he repeated, deadpan. “You think you and me laughing at two in the morning in your bed is gonna break up the Fantastic Four?”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.” He tugged you a tiny bit closer by your hip, eyes locked on yours. “Boo, we’ve gotten through worse. They’re not gonna fall apart because we—” He hesitated, jaw working. “—because we care about each other differently now.”
You swallowed hard, your voice smaller now. “I just don’t want them picking sides.”
His expression softened like melting wax. He leaned his forehead to yours again, gentler this time. “No one’s picking sides. Not unless you start picking fights again, and even then I’m still betting on you.”
You snorted, the tension easing just an inch.
He took the opportunity, slipping a hand up your back, grounding you with his warmth. “Look,” he murmured, “I get not wanting to make waves. I do. But don’t pretend this is nothing just to keep the peace.”
Your heartbeat thudded once, sharp and loud.
“Because it’s not nothing,” he whispered. “Not to me.”
“I know, Riki…Just—please?” You bring your hand up to his cheek, brushing his chiseled jaw. Though he shook his head slowly with soft eyes, you whispered—lips brushing against his as you mumbled. “Please, for me? Please…?”
His breath hitched the second your lips grazed his—soft enough to deny, close enough to ruin him. His eyes fluttered half-shut, like he couldn’t decide whether to lean in or back away before he did something stupid. “Baby…” His voice was barely sound now, more exhale than words. You felt it against your mouth, warm and shaky. “You know I’d do anything you asked.”
You nudged closer—not kissing him, not quite, just letting the shape of him press into the shape of you. Your palm was warm on his jaw, your thumb sweeping the curve of his cheekbone. His breath stuttered again. “But you’re asking me to pretend,” he murmured, eyes opening fully. “To pretend I don’t…feel this. With you. About you.”
Your fingers flexed at his skin, and he shivered.
“I’m not asking you to pretend,” you whispered back. “I’m just asking you to help me protect what we already have. Before anyone else gets involved. Before it turns into drama or sides or expectations. I just…want us. Quietly. Carefully.”
His jaw clenched under your hand—less anger, more restraint. The kind he only ever showed with you.
“And if I say yes,” he asked, voice low, “does that mean I only get you in moments like this? When the door’s closed and everyone’s asleep?”
Your throat bobbed.
“If that’s what it takes to make sure that we don’t ruin our group.” you whispered.
For a beat, he didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you, his forehead pressing to yours like he was steadying himself on the only thing that hadn’t ever failed him.
Then he exhaled, long and quiet, his hand sliding from your back to cradle the side of your neck. “Fine,” he murmured. “For you.” His nose brushed yours, gentle, aching. “But don’t ask me to act like you don’t mean something to me. Even if no one else gets to know yet.”
His thumb traced your throat, slow, deliberate. “I can’t fake that. Not even for you.”
—
The next morning
—
“Cousin?!” Leehan called out to his mom as she moved through the kitchen. “What cousin?!”
Mrs. Kim sighed as she chopped up vegetables, using the knife as a pointer to gesture to the basket of laundry on the counter that she needed her son to fold. “My friend from high school, Alexa, is sending her daughter to go to school here.”
With a roll of the eye, “school or university? Neither start for another month and a half.” He goes to fold some of the shirts in the basket. Tucking in the small ones of his younger brother and sister.
“She got into USC. I thought she could stay here, hang out with you and your friends. Just to get acclimated.” She says, looking down as she chops up a carrot. “Her mom’s staying back in Honduras where they live now and she just wanted to get out. See the world other than where she’s from. You get it.”
Leehan sighed, “we don’t need another buddy; and why do we need another person in here? It’s already crowded as is.” His little siblings breeze past him, pushing him into the counter as they giggle—running amok in the kitchen and living room.
Mrs. Kim slammed the knife down with a sneer. “No playing in the living room! Go in the yard!”
The two little ones scattered instantly, shrieking as they bolted for the back door. Leehan winced, rubbing the spot on his hip where a rogue elbow had caught him. “See?” he muttered. “Chaos. Pure chaos. And you wanna add another college student into this circus?”
His mom didn’t even look up as she slid the carrots into a bowl. “She’s not just any college student. She’s Alexa’s daughter. And she’s never lived away from home before. She’ll need support.”
“Support,” he echoed flatly. “Right. And by support you mean me.”
Mrs. Kim shot him a look that could level a grown man. “I mean all of us. But especially you. You’re the oldest. Responsible. Reliable.”
He blinked. “Mom, you asked me to unclog the shower last week and I nearly passed out from the smell.”
“Exactly,” she said, patting his cheek. “Builds character.”
He groaned into the laundry basket. “And what’s her name?” he asked, voice muffled in defeat.
“Xiomara.”
Leehan lifted his head like she’d just announced they were adopting a Bengal tiger. “Xiomara?” he repeated, slowly, like the name itself was a threat. “Mom, that sounds like a girl who walks into a room and immediately ruins my life.”
Mrs. Kim swatted his arm with a dish towel. “She’s very sweet!”
“That’s what people said about Riki before he started bossing me around,” he muttered.
From outside, one of his little siblings shrieked triumphantly, followed by a loud thump. Mrs. Kim didn’t even flinch. “You’ll take her around, introduce her to your friends, show her the area—”
“Mom.”
“—help her move in, make sure she’s eating—”
“Mom.”
“—maybe drive her to orientation—”
“Mom!”
Finally, she looked up.
“What?”
“I’m not a babysitter,” he huffed. “I barely babysit them.” He pointed out the window where one of the kids was trying to climb the garden hose like it was a rope in gym class.
Mrs. Kim clicked her tongue as she went to chop some garlic. “She’s not a baby. She’s eighteen.”
Leehan’s soul left his body. “EIGHT—Mom, that’s literally barely legal! I can’t be seen hanging out with a kid! I’m twenty! People will think I’m recruiting!”
Mrs. Kim pursed her lips, squinting her eyes as she clutched the knife tighter in her hands. No words were spoken as she tapped the surface slowly.
Leehan froze.
Not because she looked angry—but because that tap? That knife-tap? That was the “choose your next words like your life depends on it” tap.
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay. Alright. That came out wrong.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He gulped.
“What I meant,” he corrected quickly, “was that—uh—eighteen is…young. Very young. Like ‘still doesn’t know which side of the street has the bus stop’ young.”
His mother didn’t blink. “Continue.”
“And!” he added, voice cracking like a man under interrogation, “—and I am not qualified for mentorship. I’m barely feeding myself on time. I had cereal for dinner yesterday.”
“That’s because you refused to eat the stew I made.”
“It had mushrooms!”
Tap. Tap.
He winced.
Mrs. Kim sighed through her nose, the way women do when they’ve raised three children, a husband, and apparently now one extra stray. “She is not a kid. She is a guest. A guest who will be living under my roof. Which means she will be treated like family.”
Leehan nodded rapidly. “Right. Family. Like a sibling.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Perfect,” he said.
A beat.
“Except,” she raised a brow, “you will not treat her like you treat your siblings.”
He blinked. “Why not?”
“Because you terrorize them.”
“I don’t.” He shakes his head.
“I’m not arguing with you, son.”
“Fine.” He nods in relent. “So…where’s she gonna sleep?”
“Your room.”
The words landed like a brick to the skull.
Leehan straightened slowly, arms going stiff at his sides. “My…room,” he repeated, making sure he hadn’t misheard. “As in—my room, where I sleep. Where my stuff lives. Where I—exist.”
“Yes,” his mother said simply, drying her hands on a towel. “She needs a space that’s clean and quiet. And yours is the only one that makes sense.”
He stared at her, chest tight. “Mom, my room is my only space. The only place in this entire house that’s not—” he gestured around at the chaos, the abandoned toys, the scribbles on the fridge, the sticky handprints on the cupboards— “that.”
“I know,” she said, and her voice wasn’t sharp this time. It was steady. Unmoving. “Which is why I’m trusting you with this.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. The weight behind her words was unmistakable.
“She’s coming here alone,” Mrs. Kim continued softly. “No family. No support system. No familiarity. She’s walking into a country she doesn’t know, a language she barely uses, a school she’s hardly seen. She’s still a child to her mother, no matter how old she is.”
Leehan’s breath stalled.
“She needs safety,” she said. “And stability. She needs someone who won’t overwhelm her or talk down to her. At least give her sympathy.”
He pressed his lips together, throat tightening.
“And you,” she added, looking him in the eyes now, “are the one I trust the most to give her that. Not because you’re perfect. But because you’re my son and I raised you to take care of people always.”
Silence.
A thick, heavy silence.
He let out a slow breath. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll move my things.”
Mrs. Kim nodded, relieved—but not triumphant. “Thank you.”
He stared at the floor, at the laundry basket, at nothing in particular.
“…What’s she like?” he asked after a moment. Not annoyed. Not sarcastic. Just…trying to understand the person stepping into his life.
His mom paused, thinking. “Smart,” she said. “Kind. Quiet. More observant than she lets on. But she's a nice girl, you guys would like her.”
He nodded once.
Then again.
“Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll be good to her.”
“I know you will.”
A beat passed—the kind that settles into the air, makes everything feel more real.
“What time does her flight get in?” he asked.
“One hour.”
His eyes widened. “Mom—”
“Go,” she said, waving him off. “Take the car, I’ll move your stuff.”
He grabbed his keys, heart pounding as he jogged toward the door.
And as he makes his way out to the beat up driveway, he comes across you walking up his porch. He steps back, soft laughter as he puts his hands up in defense. “Woah…gonna bite my head off, Chihuahua?”
“Shut up,” you cross your arms—rolling your eyes as you resist a laugh. “I left my bag here yesterday. I’ve come to retrieve it.”
He nods affirmatively, brushing past you as he gently yanks a curl of yours on his way down the steps. “It’s in my closet.”
You reached down to swat his arm. “Where you going?”
He turns back, one foot already on the next step, breath still a little fast from the sprint out of the house. The sunlight catches on his face, softening everything he’s trying so hard to keep steady.
“Airport,” he says simply.
Your brows pull together. “Now?”
He huffs—short, almost incredulous—as if he just realized the timing doesn’t make any damn sense either. “Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Apparently I’m a morning person now.”
You blink at him. “Since when?”
“Since today,” he says, dead serious.
There’s no joke behind it. No smirk. He’s standing there looking wired, focused, too awake for someone who hasn’t even had breakfast yet.
You tilt your head, studying him. Something in his voice is different—quieter, heavier. “Family?”
He hesitates. Just long enough for the truth to flash across his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Kind of.”
“Can I ride with you?” You shrug, “I’m bored and I have literally nothing else to do.”
He jerks his chin toward the driveway, already moving, steps quick and purposeful. You follow him down the porch, your shoulder brushing his for half a second—a tiny contact, but he feels it. You can tell by the way his breath stutters before he masks it. Annoyance but patient in some way.
The car beeps unlocked.
He opens the passenger door for you without a word. You lean against the door before you sit, preparing to ask him something. But as you do, a voice calls out:
“Oi! Where are you two off to?”
You both turn to see Shota coming from across the street—backpack in tow as he bounces over. His dyed, blond hair shining in the beaming sun. “You two know I have attachment issues.”
You laugh softly as you brush your hair off your shoulder. “Ask your best friend, his mood is shot.”
Leehan sighed, “my mood isn’t anything, Bun—I just have to go and you’re making me late.”
“Late for what?!” Another voice calls across the street.
It was weird, yet convenient how your guys’ houses were lined up. The best way to describe it would be akin to a square and its vertices. Right beside Leehan was your house. Directly parallel to you was Riki, then parallel to Leehan was Shota.
Riki jogs down his driveway, one hand raking through his hair, the other shoving his keys into his pocket like he’s already annoyed at the world and hasn’t even reached the sidewalk yet.
He eyes the three of you gathered around Leehan’s half-opened car door. “What’s happening?” he asks, breath a little uneven like he’d been rushing.
Shota throws his hands up dramatically. “A betrayal is happening. They were about to leave me. Again.”
Leehan’s jaw flexes. “No one’s betraying anyone. I just have somewhere to be.”
Riki’s gaze flicks to you, quick and sharp, then to Leehan—reading the tension instantly. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Leehan mutters.
You answer for him. “He’s lying. Obviously. He opened the car door for me without calling me a dickhead. I’m concerned.”
Shota gasps like you’ve announced a national emergency. “Oh that’s new.”
Leehan drags a hand down his face. “Can you three—just this once—not be—”
“Entertaining?” Shota offers.
“Observant?” Riki adds.
“Inconveniencing?” you finish.
He looks heavenward, praying for strength. Then he jerks his thumb at the car. “Just get in. All of you.”
“Yay!” You and Shota cheered simultaneously. Riki smiled softly as he opened the back passenger door for the older guy to get in.
Shota slid in the backseat, putting his backpack down by his feet—settling into the seat as he fanned himself. “Can you turn the AC on? It’s like a toaster oven in here.”
Leehan makes his way around the van. “The car’s not even on yet, genius.”
Riki snorts, “move over,” he tapped the top of the van as he waited for Shota to shimmy to the other side. But before he could even put his leg in, a deep, raspy voice—diagonal from the driveway called out for him. “Riki!”
All four of your guys’ attention went in the direction of the sound. The birds chirped over the white noise of the block as somehow the sky clouded over. Reo.
You sighed, rolling your eyes as you turned your back again. Leaning against the car with your arms crossed.
Reo was already discussed previously. Not in any depth anyway because as much as he seemed to matter to Riki—he mattered to you as well.
As an enemy.
As an older brother, though, he was Riki’s sole caregiver and provider amidst their parents not being around. While Reo had to juggle being fifteen and taking care of his ten year old brother, he ensured that Riki was in school, was fed, and had what he needed to essentially have a normal childhood just as anyone else.
However, as Riki grew and started to demand (not literally, but metaphorically) the presence of their mom and dad—Reo didn’t know how to handle it. Couldn’t fathom or configure the idea of wearing so many different hats at once. Mom, dad, brother, nurse, personal wallet, cheerleader, chauffeur until Riki was sixteen, the list goes on.
Leehan, Shota, and you had always had the luxury of support by parental figures—something Riki didn’t have—but it was always afforded to him. Never did any of your parents turn him or Reo away for anything because they knew how hard their circumstances were. But no one dared to call social services because it meant that both boys would be lost in the abyss of the American foster care system and of course, everyone has heard such great things about what happens there.
If either of them needed food because Reo’s check didn’t clear—they got it. Christmas gifts. Clothes. Hot water. Anything in the world, those boys had it as long as you, Shota, and Leehan did.
But once Reo graduated high school (with a C average, just by the skin of his teeth)—he knew to follow in the legacy that his father had left him with—R12. Leaving him to stay in Freeridge and get Riki through middle school, high school, and everything else.
And things seemed fine. Reo was going to work. Participating in the gang dealings that both boys seemed to be familiar with but the older they got, the more the cracks started to show.
Riki learned how to be multiple people at once—a friend, support system, an advocate for all three of you…and Reo’s little brother, the kid everyone in R12 kept an eye on because Reo would set the whole block on fire if anything happened to him.
But it was a lot more complex than that. Reo ensured Riki wasn’t touched, ensuring he didn’t lose his respect. But something shifted once Riki turned fifteen.
He stopped caring about the sanctity of Riki’s youth. Disregarded everything that mattered when it came to his brother.
Riki had dreams. Ones that seemed small to others but too big for Freeridge.
And it was simple: make it out.
Since he was a kid, Riki had wished upon a star, tossed a coin into a fountain, closed his eyes extra hard during every birthday wish, wrote a million times under his pillow—for his entire life—the same wish.
To leave.
Not to abandon, not to forget—just to escape the gravity of a place that had never loved him gently. Riki wanted sunlight without bars across it, air without someone else’s name on it, choices that weren’t choreographed by a gang legacy he never asked to inherit.
Reo saw that dream as an insult.
Because to him, leaving meant rejecting the only thing he had ever been good at. The only thing that kept a roof over their heads. The only thing that made him valuable in a world that chewed him up at fifteen and spit him out as a man.
So when Riki talked about getting out—going to college, traveling, anything that didn’t involve the R12 sign—Reo didn’t hear hope. Just betrayal.
And that’s when the shift happened. No more rides to practice. No more checking if Riki ate. No more showing up to school events pretending he wasn’t bone-tired.
Instead—cold orders. Sharp warnings. A hardness that didn’t belong in a home but lived there anyway.
Reo stopped seeing Riki as a kid. Stopped seeing him as a brother. Started seeing him as a liability—someone who wanted to run from the very life Reo had bled to keep intact for him.
Riki never said it out loud, not to you, not to anyone. But every time Reo’s voice cut through the street, every time those R12 men watched him too closely, every time his shoulders went rigid—
You could tell. Because you knew these three like yourself. If you were an impulsive, neurotic, hotheaded chihuahua then Leehan was a pressured, ticking time bomb with oldest sibling syndrome. Shota was a mildly deluded individual that blocked out the negativity in the world by living by his rules. Like Riki was a hurricane contained in a bottle—soft and mesmerizing one moment, destructive and untamable the next. He absorbed everything around him—the chaos, the expectations, the danger—and carried it with a grace that no one else could sustain. But inside, that wish to escape, to be free of Freeridge and the shadows of R12, was a constant pressure, a weight that bent him without breaking him.
And you could see it in the way he flinched when Reo’s name was mentioned, in the subtle tension in his shoulders when someone lingered too long on the block, in the way he smiled a little too hard, laughed a little too loud, just to convince himself he was still okay.
He was caught between worlds: the world he wanted, and the world that had claimed him before he even knew how to fight for himself. And you—well, you understood that storm better than anyone.
The older brother in question jogged across the street. His gaze never left his little brother the whole time. When he finally made it to the driveway, Reo—now twenty-five—stood before you and everyone.
Him and Riki were exactly the same height. A nice six foot one. Reo’s presence hit like a wall, all angles and edges and deliberate weight. His hair, dark and cropped close on the sides, caught the sun in streaks of bronze where it had faded at the tips. His jaw was sharp, square, defined, with the faintest shadow of stubble that made him look older than his twenty-five years. Eyes like storm clouds—a very dark brown—hovered between calculating and exhausted, the kind of eyes that had seen too much too young.
Broad shoulders, strong arms, and a chest that filled out his fitted shirt made him look like he could carry the weight of the street on his back. Even his stance—feet planted just so, fists loose but ready—spoke of someone who had fought to keep everything together, someone who moved with both authority and quiet warning. Every detail about him—the set of his brow, the crease at the corner of his mouth, the way his gaze flicked to Riki first—was a reminder that he wasn’t just an older brother. He was a force.
But he wasn’t impolite.
He scanned the rest of you three with a masked smile. Bending down slightly, poking his head into the van—he caught Shota’s view. “Hi, Shota.”
The guy nodded silently, waving his hand as he put one of his wired earbuds in.
“Donghyun,” he nodded as he looked at Leehan—who leaned against the car with his hands and opened his palm. Hardly smiling but just enough to acknowledge the elder.
Then finally, his eyes fell to you. More like your side profile as you refused to even look at him. The last time you laid eyes on him was the day you left for college—so nearly a year ago. You hadn’t visited during breaks, money was too tight for you to come back and forth.
Watching him stand on the sidewalk beside his younger brother as the three of you all drove onto the next part of your lives was probably the most sadistic thing you’ve seen out of him. The memory was like a picture in your mind. Him, resting a hand on Riki’s shoulder as their eyes hadn’t left you. Like he was reminding him of what he never wanted to come to fruition for Riki.
“Bunnyboo…” he called out with a smile. “You look beautiful. I’ve missed you.”
You stiffened at the voice, the familiar tone threading through the warm morning air, carrying all the weight of his presence. That smile—something in it was the same as before, teasing yet measured, like he had rehearsed it a thousand times to keep control—but there was an undercurrent there, an edge of something almost vulnerable, something carefully tucked beneath the force of his usual armor.
“Hm.” You inhaled, arms tightening as you crossed them.
He probed on though, “you’ve grown. You still carry your Bratz dolls in your backpack?”
You scoff, smacking your teeth. “That was like fifteen years ago.”
Reo chuckled, a low, controlled sound that somehow carried both amusement and a trace of disbelief. “That long, huh? I feel like that’s the kind of thing that sticks with you forever,” he said, eyes flicking briefly to the gold, nameplate necklace with your actual name on it. The one you wore every single day since you were a kid. There was a softness in that look, fleeting, but it was there—an acknowledgment of the person you were then, the person you’d become.
You rolled your eyes, brushing a curl behind your ear. “Yeah, well, some of us grow up,” you said, trying for a casual tone, though your voice carried just enough bite to hint that you weren’t entirely relaxed.
He took your jab and let it roll down his back. His tongue poked his cheek as he turned to Riki. “We got business.”
Riki’s shoulders tensed, the familiar flicker of unease crossing his features. “Business? Now? At nine in the morning?” His voice carried a note of incredulity that didn’t quite mask the edge of confusion.
Reo didn’t look at him, didn’t even blink. His gaze was fixed, sharp, deliberate, scanning the block like he already knew every corner, every potential obstacle. “Now,” he said again, voice low but iron-strong. “We move fast, or it’s done before it even starts.”
You leaned back slightly against the car, arms still crossed, observing the quiet, absolute command in his posture. Every movement was deliberate, economical—Reo didn’t waste energy on theatrics. Even the way he stood beside Riki, that protective shadow, made your stomach knot. The tension wasn’t just between the brothers—it radiated outward, threading through the air around everyone else, a subtle, undeniable warning.
Riki exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Okay…” He turned to the three of you with a look of frustration. “I’ll see y’all when you get back.”
You watched him hesitate for a moment, shoulders stiff, jaw tight, before he finally gave a small nod. “Be careful,” you muttered under your breath but loud enough for him to catch.
Reo’s eyes flicked toward you, the storm behind them softening just a fraction, like he recognized the weight of your gaze. No words, just a subtle tilt of his head—a silent acknowledgment. Then he turned, and with practiced precision, started walking down the street, Riki falling into step beside him like a shadow, smaller but unwilling to be left behind.
The van sat there idling, warm in the morning sun. You pressed your palms into each, trying to calm the sudden tightness in your chest. The air seemed heavier, charged, as if the space around them carried all the years of responsibility, anger, and unspoken plights between the brothers.
Shota leaned back against the seat, muttering, “Damn. That’s…intense.”
Leehan just shook his head, lips pressed together. “Yeah. That’s Reo for you. Always been that way.”
You stayed quiet, watching the figures recede, knowing that once they disappeared around the corner, the street would feel smaller—and emptier—but the echo of their presence would linger, a quiet warning you couldn’t ignore.
—
The drive south to LAX was relaxing, you on the aux as some music played comfortably. As Leehan pushed the van down the freeway, you hummed along to the music as you watched the world pass you by.
But of course, silence was always short-lived as it pertained to your friends. “So, I assume you and Riki are together again?”
You turned to him with a flabbergasted, yet offended expression. “I’m sorry?”
His eyes widened, tightening on the steering wheel. “I said, ‘I assume you and Riki are hanging out together again?”
“Oh…”
“...as in, you guys aren’t fighting anymore?” He leaned back as he signaled to move to another lane.
“Oh…yeah.” You nodded as your heart rate simmered a little. “Yeah, we squashed it.”
“So what happened?” He said absentmindedly as he turned the music down a little so he could hear you properly.
You gulp, keeping your eyes looking out of the window. “Nothing. We just agreed to…chill, you know. No beef.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Leehan laughed, “you were at his throat less than a day ago and now things are just squashed? What actually happened between you guys? Is what he said true or not?”
This was the thing you hated about lying: the guilt of it. But the fact that you had to think of a lie, say it convincingly, then remember it was entirely too stressful.
Riki didn’t even want to keep this up. He wanted to show you off, hold your hand walking down the street, kiss you whenever he felt like. Not in the dark or behind closed doors within the confines of your rooms or the city’s outskirts. But of course, he was a simple man—and entirely too easy. Whatever it took to be with you, he’d do it.
But your fear of commitment and judgment superseded anything that either of you could want.
“No, we didn’t sleep together.” You said with finality. “He just said that because some of the idiotic R12 members were talking about getting at me. So he—” You used air quotes, “‘put a claim on me’ so that they wouldn’t try anything.”
“So why didn’t he tell us that he did that?”
You somehow reached a flow state. “Because he knows how you two run your fat mouths. It’s just better if everyone thinks the same thing, I guess. That way he doesn’t have to remember who knows what.”
Leehan’s brow arched so high it was nearly touching his hairline. “Mhm. Right. Because he’s soooo organized like that.”
You shot him a glare sharp enough to slice bread. “Can you just drive?”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes still on you. “Nah, because something’s not adding up. Riki said one thing. Shota and I heard another. You acted one way. And now this?” He motioned in a circle at your whole existence. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar,” you snapped.
“So you admit that you’re lying?”
You groaned, sliding lower into your seat until you were practically melting into the upholstery. The anxiety sat in your chest like a cinder block. Keeping a secret relationship hidden from a man like Leehan—who was basically a human lie detector fused with a nosy aunt—felt like trying to hide a fireworks show behind a napkin.
And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong. Your lies were getting thinner, shakier, stitched together by panic. You felt the guilt creeping up your throat—warm, prickly, accusing.
Leehan glanced at you. His voice softened just enough to unsettle you. “Are you scared of him?”
You blinked. “What? Who?”
“Reo.”
You laughed, actually laughed at how off he was. “Please, that dickhead has nothing to do with this.” You folded your hands over your stomach as you crossed your legs in an effort to warm them from the blasting air conditioner. “He doesn’t scare shit over here.”
“So what are you hiding and why lie about it?”
“Oh my god,” you groaned. “Bitch you are so fucking nosey!”
Leehan grinned like a cat who’d finally cornered a mouse. “Yeah. And?”
“And mind your damn business!”
“It is my business,” he argued, turning onto the main road like he wasn’t detonating your blood pressure. “Because every time you lie, Riki acts weird, and when Riki acts weird, I get dragged into some emotional bullshit I didn’t ask for.”
You clutched your chest dramatically. “So now I’m inconveniencing you?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even hesitate. “My chakras are weighed down.”
You stared at him. “You don’t even know what chakras are.”
“I know yours are clogged with secrets.”
You slapped his arm—not hard, but enough to make him jerk the wheel a little. “Leehan!”
“Hey! Assaulting the driver is crazy.”
“Being the IRS of my personal life is crazy.”
He snorted, glancing over at you for half a second. “So you admit there’s something to tax?”
Your jaw dropped. “I didn’t say that!”
“You said it with your face.”
“Shut up.”
He hummed, smug, fingers tapping the wheel like he’d solved a crime. “One day, you’re gonna tell me.”
“One day,” you shot back, “I’m gonna push you out of a moving vehicle.”
“Good,” he said, nodding. “Maybe the fall will knock the truth loose.”
“I wish death on you. A slow, agonizing death. But until then,” you sighed. “Which terminal are we headed to?” You gestured ahead to the iconic big white letters that indicated your arrival.
“Terminal B…” Leehan sighed as he leaned forward, inspecting the bustling airport and the pedestrians making their ways through.
You reached behind you to grab Shota’s backpack, shuffling through it for his bag of sour gummy worms. The owner of said bag extended his hand for you to give him some, not even speaking because he had his own music playing.
You dropped a few gummy worms into Shota’s waiting palm, then tore one in half with your teeth like a feral squirrel. “Thank you for your service,” you mumbled around the candy.
Shota gave you a thumbs-up without looking up, completely zoned out to whatever playlist he lived on. You swore the guy could sleep through a tornado but wake up instantly if someone opened a bag of snacks within a five-mile radius.
Leehan eased the car into the arrival lane, glaring at the chaos like it personally offended him. “Why are airports always like fever dreams?” he muttered. “Every time I come here, I lose five years of my life.”
“Who are we scooping anyway?” You say through a mouthful of candy. “An uncle or some shit?”
“No, my cousin—well…she’s not blood but…” He shrugs as he grabs a gummy from the bag.
You snorted, “I got you, that’s just how people of color work, I guess. Everyone’s a cousin.”
He nodded, “yeah, but this is my first time meeting her. Her mom and my mom went to high school together way back when. Then they moved and shit, now her daughter is going to uni here in the States. Or…will be.”
You furrowed your brows inquisitively, “where are they from?”
“Honduras.”
Your brows lifted in surprise as a smile hit your face. “Oh snap, look at Mrs. Kim knowing people. Mrs. Worldwide.”
Leehan snorted, shaking his head. “Please don’t gas her up like that. She already thinks she’s Pitbull.”
You laughed, leaning back in your seat. “No, because I know she be telling people she’s multicultural just for the fun of it.”
“She does,” he said flatly. “She told her nail tech last week she ‘turns up’ when she listens to reggaetón. Like who says that anymore?”
You slapped his arm. “Shut UP.”
He groaned. “I was like, Mom…you don’t even know who Bad Bunny is.”
Shota, still munching gummies with one earbud in, glanced up. “She thought his name was Benny.”
You wheezed. “Isn’t his name Benito? She was close.”
“Not the point.” Shota smiled, taking another gummy worm. “I just don’t get how…”
Shota’s joke faded into the background, but you barely heard it. Something in your chest shifted—tightened—like a knot being pulled slowly, deliberately, until it demanded to be acknowledged. Everything seemed like white noise.
You watched the crowds outside the car, people dragging luggage, hugging relatives, starting trips, ending them. Moving. Living. And it hit you—hard—that Riki should’ve been here. Should’ve been laughing with you all. Complaining about the LA traffic. Stealing Shota’s gummies and flicking his ear just because he could.
He should’ve been in this moment.
But he wasn’t. Because he was stuck.
Your fingers curled around the bag of candy, knuckles whitening. The thought rose before you could stop it, blooming sharp and aching in your chest. You didn’t say anything at first—just let the idea sit there, heavy, terrifying, obvious.
You didn’t even realize you’d spoken until you heard your own voice.
“…I want him out.”
Leehan looked over. “Who?”
“Wait, I didn’t even do anything…” Shota said with a frown.
You kept your eyes straight ahead. If you looked at either of them, you’d talk yourself out of it. “Riki. I want him out of R12.”
Shota sat up, the surprise on his face softening into something more careful. No jokes this time. No easy shrug.
The words kept coming, quiet but sure, like you’d been holding them back for years.
“I keep thinking,” you said, voice low, “about all the things he’s missing. All the things he’ll keep missing because Reo won’t let him go.” You shook your head slightly. “I can’t stand the idea of him still being there while the rest of us get to…grow. Move forward. Be young. Be stupid. Be normal.”
Leehan’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t interrupt. Neither did Shota.
“He had the best grades out of all of us in school. Joined clubs, made friends, community service, everything. All down the drain because his selfish older brother couldn’t see past Freeridge. But it’s time for me to be selfish, guys, because I want more. For him.”
You swallowed hard. “And I don’t know…maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s impossible, but I just—” you exhaled shakily. “I keep thinking there has to be a way to get him out. Really out. A way to give him a chance at the life he keeps pretending he doesn’t want.”
Shota let out a slow breath through his nose, like he was trying to process ten different emotions at once. “You’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he murmured.
You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.
Because once the thought crawled into your chest, it refused to leave—this stubborn, aching truth that wouldn’t unclench its grip. Riki laughing on a couch that wasn’t surrounded by lookouts. Riki sleeping without one eye open. Riki showing up to dumb little hangouts like this one, rolling his eyes, complaining about the snacks. Riki choosing things instead of surviving them.
You blinked hard. “I hate that I’m starting to picture him as a memory while I’m still alive.”
Shota’s jaw flexed. Leehan’s stare stayed glued to the road, but his knuckles had gone white.
“He’s not gone,” Leehan said quietly.
“No,” you agreed, throat tight, “but you know how that life is. You either end up in prison, dead, or both. And I don’t even want to think about either.”
Shota shifted, like the words physically hit him. “Don’t say that,” he muttered, but it wasn't a reprimand—it was fear.
You stared down at your hands. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Neither of them did.
The signs passed, blocking the sun for a moment—casting a shadow across the windshield, washing the car in gold every few seconds. Each flash made the ache in your chest feel sharper, more real, like the world itself was trying to illuminate a truth you’d been avoiding.
“I keep replaying stupid things,” you said softly. “Like him talking about wanting to visit a college campus. Or saying he wanted to see snow for the first time. Or—” your breath trembled, “—how he used to say he wanted to get out of Freeridge before he turned twenty-one.” You swallowed again, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “He says it like a joke now. Like something he already accepted he’ll never have.”
Shota looked out his window, voice barely above a whisper. “He stopped talking about the future altogether.”
That got you. A quiet, painful exhale left your lungs. “Exactly,” you murmured. “It’s like he’s already grieving a life he hasn’t even lived.”
Leehan finally spoke, low and certain. “Then we don’t let that happen.”
You turned your head, heart thudding. He wasn’t saying it like a fantasy. He was saying it like a plan.
“We figure out a way,” he continued, eyes still on the road but voice steady, “to give him a real shot. A clean break. Something he can’t walk away from, even if he tries.”
i kinda went back on my word tbh. the series is unfinished but i did wanna just put part one out to see if it was something yall wanted. but i think ep one is the most boring. my fav one to write was ep three.
so we will seeeeee !! maybe it'll flop, maybe not. i know series' can be tricky for some to follow along with.
✰ synopsis: four childhood best friends thought distance wouldn’t change them. but when you come back home to freeridge after your first year of college, a buried secret and gang politics collide—testing loyalty, love, and the block that raised them.
✰ run time: 17.1k words
✰ mpaa rating: TV-MA — fictional universe (on my block / freeridge, california.), coming of age kinda, found family, morally grey characters, swearing, “secret relationship”, implied sexual content, angst, fluff, banter, drug use and mention, underage drinking, distorted self-image, jealousy, situationship to lovers IM SORRY PLEASE, arguments, gun violence and gang shit, crying, summerween (as per gravity falls love that show), socioeconomic commentary, crude humor (some boundary pushing, but what is art without such), breaking the 4th wall a lil bit (it’s kinda fun i promise)
viewer's discretion advised.
✰ authors note!! (important): hey, welcome to the circle. this, alongside other fics in the future, will be apart of my “as seen on tv” series where i essentially make fics based on my favorite shows! i rmm doing this during my wattpad days but now it has gotten a name and a full blown makeover seeing as i am way more skilled than i was 5 years ago (or at least i’d like to think so).
these fics will literally be a mixture of me writing from memory of the show’s events, creating new scenes and dialogue (obvi, this won’t be a fic ON the show), creating whole new tales but just within the universe itself, etc. some may be oneshots, some may not be! i will make that judgment based on if i feel the fic calls for it or not. but the circle will have more than one. and there will be an upload schedule upon completion (i'm far along already dw), so make sure you turn that tv on.
this is a pilot!! more so, a temperature check to see how we're liking it thus far and if you want more.
you do not need to have watched the shows to understand fics. these can be read separately from the shows. though, it would be more fun!! i’d always recommend on my block as it is one of—if not—the greatest netflix series of all time. it’s all up to you.
soundtrack to enhance reading experience: spotify | apple
You’ve only been back in Freeridge, California for ten minutes and somehow your feet already know where to go.
You grew up on this block—this cracked sidewalk, that bent stop sign, the same sun-faded corner store where y’all used to beg for Slurpees after school. Childhood friends turned family: you, Shota, Leehan, and Riki. Neighbors since tricycles and scraped knees.
You walk up to Leehan’s house—still has the red folding chairs on the porch, the one with the wind chime—and see him and Shota inside through the window, arguing over something stupid like always.
At this point, you knew this house like you knew your own. If you were ever even really there anyway. You’ve spent summers, weekdays, weekends, school years—almost—in this home and it got to a point where you didn’t even have to knock. And if you did, then the door would always open for you because you had a key.
With a lively spirit, you barged inside—duffel bag in tow as you saw two out of your three best friends politicking on the couch. “Hey, assholes!”
Leehan paused in his movements, eyes widening just a bit before his jaw slacked. “You’re back…”
You dropped your duffel by the door with a now deflated look. “Did you expect me to stay in the woods for the whole summer?”
“Yes—I mean, no. No…we didn’t—no we didn’t. Right, Shota?” He turned to the younger, watching as he was on his phone—not even minding the interaction. “Dude!” Leehan snapped as he beamed a pillow at him.
With a thud, Shota’s phone hit the couch. “Yo—oh hey,” he looked at you with a smile. Standing up, opening his arms as he walked closer to you. “I missed you, Bun.”
“Yeah, at least someone did—ooh!” You grunted as Shota strong-armed you, wrapping his arms around you as he lifted you off your feet. “I missed you too, bro.”
He smiled at the words, “you smell like an airplane.”
Laughing, you wrapped your arms around him. Shota wasn’t always the brightest, but he was bright in every other way.
Shota, Leehan, and you all returned from your first years of college and though you didn’t get home right away—you were offered by your school’s writing club to go on a retreat with them after the semester finished. It was fun, enriching, and about five weeks. In a way, it was like summer camp for adults and it was nice to just unplug for a while after a hectic semester.
All three of you attended different schools. And while that was a hard summer’s end—you knew in some way it’d be good for you. The longest all four of you had been apart was a singular day since you were all seven years old. So eleven years later—after endless sleepovers, fights, makeups, robbing convenience stores blind, and late night phone calls—saying goodbye and seeing your cars go in different directions was the hardest thing you ever had to do.
“I missed you guys,” you said softly.
Leehan sighed, giving up his seeming distressed demeanor. “We missed you too,” he joined you and Shota as he wrapped his arms around you both. “How was everything?”
You were too enraptured in the comfort of being in the arms of your friends to realize that there was a third of your heart missing. “It was good…Learn-y, school-y.” Your feet still dangled in the air as you scanned the room; even eyeing the bathroom door for a moment hoping someone would come out. But knowing that it was early noon—Leehan’s little siblings were at day camp and his parents were working. None of them would be back until later in the day.
But even then, something felt hollow. Wrong. And you knew it when you only felt two pairs of arms around you. “Where’s Riki?”
Leehan’s arms stiffened first.
Not dramatically—just this tiny, telltale pause like his brain hit a speed bump. Shota let you down from his hug a little too fast, brushing his hands on his shorts like he suddenly needed something to do.
You frowned. “Hello? I said: where’s Riki?”
Leehan cleared his throat. “Uh…he’s, um…not here.”
“No shit. Where is he?”
Shota wouldn’t look at you. He kept glancing at Leehan like he wanted permission to talk.
“Guys.” You crossed your arms. “I’ve been home for ten minutes and you’re both acting like I asked you who killed Kennedy.”
Shota chimed in, “wasn’t it Harvey Lee Oswald?”
Leehan’s eyes didn’t leave you as he put his finger on Shota’s chest. “Lee Harvey Oswald and Riki’s…just not really around.” He shook his head as he walked to plop down on the couch.
You tilted your head in confusion. Eyes squinting as you had trouble connecting the dots. “What does that even mean? Did he move or some shit?” Crossing your arms as you approached him.
“We just—just drop it, man.” Leehan sighs. “Riki’s irrelevant.”
Your lips parted in surprise as you drew back. “Since—what? He’s been our best friend and neighbor since we were in the second grade and he’s suddenly old news?”
Shota interjected, “can you guys walk with me to the store? I want some chips.”
Without looking at him, you nodded to the door.
Shota tugged his hoodie on and headed out first, leaving you and Leehan in this thick, uncomfortable silence that felt wrong in a house you practically grew up in.
The walk to the corner store was familiar—same cracked pavement, same graffiti that had been there since middle school—but the energy between the three of you was off. Shota kept kicking a pebble like it personally offended him. Leehan jammed his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders tight.
Halfway down the block, you tried again.
“So we’re really not talking about it?”
Leehan exhaled hard through his nose. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
You snorted. “You’re lying. You’re bad at it. And you only get this weird when it has to do with some type of drama.”
Shota slowed his steps just enough for you to catch up. “Look…things got messy while you were gone.”
“What does that mean?”
Another shared look. You hated that look. It meant you’re not gonna like this.
Leehan ran a hand through his hair. “He wasn’t…he wasn’t really hanging with us much. We barely see him anymore.”
“So? We were away. He stayed back because of his stupid ass brother. We know that.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes.
Reo, Riki’s older brother, is heavily involved with a local gang—R12.
R for the family’s first initial. 12 for the street you lived on.
The kind everyone on the block pretends not to see but knows better than to cross. The name carries weight. Trouble, too.
When junior year rolled around, all four of you discussed college and looked forward to moving onto the next chapter of your lives. Shota, Leehan, Riki, and you all thought about attending the same school. Just fun, adulthood, parties, no rules.
But senior year happened and things got serious. Reo was all Riki had. Their mother passed years ago, father was hardly around and Reo had to sacrifice school to follow his birthright: the gang. The same gang everyone warned you about, the same one Riki swore he’d only ever be “adjacent” to.
It wasn’t a choice—more like gravity. Reo demanded more, and Riki got dragged with him. It started small. Doing quick runs, disappearing in the middle of sleepovers, seeing him with small bruises on his ribs.
While the three of you were filing your FAFSAs, Riki hadn’t even made his login yet. Because he foresaw it, he knew that it just wasn’t in the cards for him. Reo made sure of it.
“Man, fuck him. Who even cares…?” Shota rolled up his sleeves as he kept walking.
You shot him a look. “You care. Don’t start lying now. And don’t talk about him like that.”
He didn’t respond—just kept walking, steps quick, like he could outrun the conversation.
Leehan let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s more than just him going through that. There’s…other stuff.”
“No,” you snapped. “Explain it. Because right now you two sound like you’re mad at him for not juggling college applications while dodging gang members.”
Shota kicked at a crack in the sidewalk. “It’s not that.”
“So what is it?!” You snapped, throwing your hands up in anger. “Bro, I’m tired of the fucking riddles like come on! What the fuck happened between when y’all got back and now?” Like usual, your temper was starting to overcome you but you inhaled sharply before the heat ran down your neck and into your gut. “Why are you guys talking like he’s public enemy number one? You have five seconds before I find him myself.”
Leehan looked at Shota wearily, like he was asking for backup but knew he wasn’t getting any. Shota just shrugged, wide-eyed, like you handle it, bro, and suddenly the air felt thick enough to chew.
Leehan dragged a hand down his face. “Because he said some shit, okay?”
“That’s vague as hell.”
He tried again. “He told us something about you.”
You stared at him. “Like what? That I eat my toenails? That I punch idiots that take too long to get to the damn point? What?”
Shota winced like he knew a bomb was about to go off. “He told us that you two…hooked up before we left this year.”
Your mouth parted, breath catching. For a second, you didn’t even react—your brain was too busy finding scenarios in which it’d be solid to break into his house and strangle him while he was sleeping. Nah…the front door was too obvious. All of our houses only have one floor so maybe taking a crowbar to his window wouldn’t be such a bad start. Then the anger hit—fast, hot, bright.
It shot up your spine, tightened your jaw, curled your hands into fists before you even realized.
Leehan took one look at your face and actually stepped back. “Okay—alright—let’s not do the murdery face right now.”
“Murdery?” you scoffed. “Leehan, I’m being polite. You don’t wanna see murdery.”
Shota nodded too fast. “Yeah, she’s being polite, bro. Super polite.”
You didn’t even hear them. Your mind was still stuck on the image of Riki opening his stupid bedroom window at three in the morning to look at the street…only for you to be standing there with a crowbar like, hey bestie, remember me?
“Look,” Leehan put his hands on your shoulders as you heaved—a way of trying to push the anger below your feet. “We didn’t even believe him. We knew it was some bullshit and he didn’t tell anyone else. Just us and…just…” He pursed his lips. “Don’t worry, it’s contained.”
You shook your head as tears stung your eyes. Fists curled as you closed them and tapped your sneakers against the concrete. “I’m not gonna kill him.”
“Mhm, you’re not gonna kill him.” He encouraged.
“So you’re not gonna kill him?” Shota asked, a look of slight disbelief on his face.
“Not gonna.” You inhaled and exhaled smoothly as you opened your eyes. Letting the cool, Californian breeze run through your curly hair. “I’m going to chop his dick off with a cleaver and feed it to him.” You smiled as you backed up, booking it down the street.
Leehan didn’t even get to yell your name before you took off—full speed, booking it down the block with murder in your eyes.
“BRO—GO! GO!” Shota yelped, sprinting after you like his life depended on it.
Leehan was right behind him. “WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS! YOU CAN’T JUST—HEY!”
But you were already gone—cutting corners, hopping curbs, powered by pure betrayal and cardio-fueled vengeance.
By the time they caught up, you were stomping up Riki’s steps, fist balled, and Shota barely managed to grab your arm as you slammed your hand against the metal screen door.
“RIKI!” you barked, pounding again like the door owed you money. “OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”
The house door hummed a little as there seemed to be music playing from the inside. So loud that you don’t even think your banging made a difference.
“Dude, no—” Leehan walked forward, winded as he tried to reason with you. Shota grabbed him before he could advance further. “Just let her…”
Without another word, you forced the door open. The conversations inside cease abruptly. A huge group of guys, probably ranging from late teens to even late twenties, are scattered throughout the house as your view was clouded by thick, strong smelling smog. Through it, the opened door was able to let some of it out for you to see through. The living room was nearly trashed: beer bottles, ashes, wrappers all over the floor as your brows knitted tighter with every step you took inside.
The air was so dense you could taste it—like someone had hotboxed the entire zip code. The music thumped from somewhere deeper in the house, heavy bass rattling the picture frames and your last remaining nerve.
A couple dudes on the couch froze mid-laugh, eyes widening like they’d just seen a ghost with anger-management issues. One guy halfway through rolling a joint dropped the paper entirely. Another blinked at you through the haze, squinting like you were a hallucination he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Leehan and Shota hovered behind you in the doorway, both coughing like old men who’d wandered into the wrong nursing home.
“Goddamn,” Shota muttered. “Even my eyelashes are high.”
“Focus,” Leehan hissed.
You scanned the room—wrappers, beer bottles, someone’s shoe (just one), a chair flipped upside down like it hadn’t survived the last round of whatever chaos went down. And on the wall, barely visible through the smog, a neon light flickered BEER PONG CHAMPIONS, only barely hanging on.
Your voice came out low, deadly, and devastatingly clear:
“Where is Riki?”
The boys closest to you stiffened like you were pointing a gun, not a question. Their eyes darted toward the hallway as one of them lifted a shaky hand and pointed to the kitchen.
You didn’t even thank him.
You just stepped forward, shoulders squared, fury so sharp it cut through the haze better than the open door ever could.
Behind you, Leehan whispered, “Yeah, no, she’s gonna kill him.”
Shota sighed, resigned. “We can at least make sure it’s quick.” It was weird, kind of bizarre seeing you disappear into the smoke.
“Nuh-uh, I’m not going in there with those people.”
As you walked through and turned the corner to the kitchen, you saw him standing in a small crowd with a blunt hanging from his fingers. The moment his eyes found yours, they glazed over. You weren’t sure what exactly you saw in them. They were red, a little hazy and sleepy looking. But seeing you, blew it all.
“What the fuck is wrong with your brain?” You stomp over to him. “Huh?! I leave for writing camp and this is what I’m welcomed by?”
Riki blinks at you, clearly caught off guard by your sudden appearance. He quickly leaned off the surface as he put the blunt out on the counter—not caring if it left a mark. “Woah, hey—”
One of his other associates, a guy with some ridiculous fine line tattoos, cuts in. He eyes you up and down with a condescending smirk. “Who the hell is this chick?”
You turned to him. “This chick is Riki’s supposed childhood best friend. But I guess he wouldn’t know that.” Your attention goes back to Riki. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Disrespecting me like that to our friends?”
The guy stepped to you, his chest puffing up in anger. “Watch your mouth, little girl—”
“Alright,” Riki shook his head as he shifted his body to him. Shaking his head as his high was now fully blown. “You better watch your mouth,” his finger wagged slowly as it lightly rested on the elder’s chest. “Take that bass out of your voice, thank you.”
The tension in the room thickened, the music playing through the house seemed distant now as you watched Riki come to your defense. It wouldn’t be the first—a part of you hoped it wasn’t the last either. But the air seemed heavier than it did thirty seconds ago.
With a final sneer, the guy brushed Riki’s hand off. “Fine. But keep your friend under control, Riki. We don’t need any outsiders causing any problems.”
“I’m an outsider?!” You laugh humorlessly, “please ask—” you approached him angrily but before you could get closer, Riki grabbed you by the arm—his grip surprisingly strong. Pulling you aside in the kitchen “Yo, yo—calm the hell down.”
“Don’t tell me to—”
“Go outside.” He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t have to. It was the tone. Low. Firm. The same one he used back when you’d get worked up over group project partners who didn’t do their share. Except this time, the stakes were way higher than a C-minus.
You yanked your arm, ignoring how warm his hand had been. “I’m not going outside. I’m not done talking to you—”
“I am not having this conversation in front of them,” he hissed, eyes flicking toward the guys watching like it was premium cable. “Outside. Now.”
“Oh, so you can make decisions,” you snapped. “Interesting. Too bad you didn’t use that skill before opening your fat-ass mouth to Shota and Leehan.”
Riki’s jaw flexed. A muscle jumped. “Bro, you’re gonna get yourself jumped, and then I’m gonna have to deal with that and your yelling. Please. Outside.”
You scoffed, loud. “Cute of you to assume I wouldn’t beat their asses and yours.”
That earned you a few offended scoffs from the crowd.
Riki dragged a hand over his face, muttering something in Japanese you were ninety-eight percent sure meant “please, God, not right now.”
With a tight breath, he stepped closer—close enough that his voice dropped and you felt it more than heard it. “You’re in my brother’s house, surrounded by his people. You can’t just bark at everyone and hope it ends well.”
You glared up at him, heat radiating off your skin like you were a human wildfire. “Funny. Because you didn’t seem to care about the consequences when you told the guys we hooked up.”
His eyes widened—there it was. Guilt. Flashing across his face like lightning. “Out. Side.” He grit out. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
You stared him down, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like you were about to lunge first and think later. But the way he said it—low, edged, almost shaking—
Yeah. You knew that tone too.
So you spun on your heel and shoved past him, letting the front door slam behind you as you stepped into the warm air.
Riki followed seconds later, shutting the door softly this time. The music dulled to a muffled thump, the smoke-heavy air swapping out for something crisp, clearer…but still thick between you two.
He stayed a few steps away, hands planted on his hips as he stared at the concrete like it offended him. His voice was low, steadying. “What the fuck is wrong with your crazy ass?!”
“I’m not crazy! I’m angry! How could sit up with our friends and just—”
“What?! Do what?”
You shoved him hard but he barely stumbled. “Fucking dick! Forget that I ever knew you. I never wanna see or hear from you again! Just…” You hold up your hand in repugnance. “Ugh!” Turning to cross the street to go directly to your house, Riki catches your arm before you can make another step. “Stop, bitch—what part of ‘I fucking hate you’ do you not get?”
“Just let me explain! Look, before you at least try to walk out of my damn life—let me tell you—”
You nudged him. “Fuck off,” walking straight ahead and across the street to your house. Disappearing from the scene without another word. Riki groaned in annoyance, massaging his temples as he stood there. Torn between following you or respecting your desire for space.
But after a moment, he lifts the bottom of his black tank top, sighing into it before he’s approached by Shota and Leehan—both boys coming out of the bushes.
Shota emerged first, twigs in his hair, looking like he’d just barely survived a nature documentary. “…She’s alive, right?” he asked, glancing between the street you stormed across and Riki’s murder-face.
Leehan stepped out after him, brushing leaves off his shirt. “We weren’t hiding—we were…tactically monitoring.”
Riki shot them both a look. “You were crouched behind a bush.”
Shota whispered, “Tactical,” under his breath.
Leehan ignored him, eyes locked on Riki. “So? Did you fix it?”
Riki barked a humorless laugh. “Does it look fixed?”
Both boys assessed him. Shota: “…You look like you got hit by a car.” Leehan: “Twice.”
Riki dragged a hand over his face again, jaw tight, chest still rising a little too fast. “She won’t even let me talk. I tried to explain, and she—” he gestured vaguely toward your house—“walked off like I’m nothing to her.”
“That’s because you messed up,” Leehan said bluntly. “Like really messed up. Like…badly.”
Shota hummed. “Honestly, I thought she was gonna deck you. And I was kinda ready to join in.”
Riki kicked a pebble, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Please, I’ve been kicking your ass since the sandbox.”
Shota bristled instantly. “Bro, that was ONE time—”
“It was every time,” Riki shot back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You used to fall over if someone breathed too hard.”
Leehan waved a hand. “Yo, can we circle back to the part where you detonated your entire friendship in under thirty seconds?”
Riki’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The high was gone. The adrenaline was gone. All that was left was that tight ache in his chest, like someone was pulling each rib inward. “I didn’t mean for her to find out like that,” he muttered.
Leehan deadpanned, “you told us.”
“Yeah, because you’re my boys,” Riki snapped, pacing a short line on the sidewalk. “I didn’t think it’d turn into some weird telephone game while she was gone!”
“But you lied on your dick though. What type of cornball does that?” Shota shrugged obviously.
“I didn’t—” He inhaled, his fists curling up as he punched his palm—leaving it stinging.
Leehan sighed. “So you’re saying y’all fucked. She clearly holds the sentiment that you didn’t so…who’s lying?” He opened his hands, prepared to receive any type of clarity on the situation.
“It’s not even about who’s lying, how do I make her not angry enough to not want to punch me in the face?” He gestured to your house. “Bro, her temper is insane! She’s like a fucking chihuahua—”
Shota clapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes going wide. “Ooh, I’m telling on you.”
Leehan nodded gravely. “Yeah, we’re really gonna jump your ass then.”
Riki groaned, dragging both hands over his face. “I didn’t mean—I’m just saying she bites first and thinks later! She’s like—like—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Shota warned. “For your own safety.”
Riki let his hands drop, exasperated. “I’m being serious. She’s not gonna listen to me. She won’t even stand still long enough for me to get a sentence out. I—” He huffed. “I panicked, okay? I shouldn’t have said we—”
“Hooked up?” Leehan offered.
Riki shot him a dirty look. “Shut up. I know it was stupid.”
Shota crossed his arms. “Bro, she finished the year. She spends an extra few weeks on an isolated writing retreat. Missing time with us for whatever reason. She came home ready to hug you. And instead she got you with a blunt, a house full of gang extras, and a rumor that you two were bumping uglies behind her back. Of course she’s mad.”
Riki winced. “…Yeah.”
Leehan’s voice firm. “So start with the truth.”
Riki blinked at him like that was the most unreasonable suggestion ever. “What truth?”
“The real one,” Leehan said. “You said something happened. She said nothing happened. So which one is it? What are we actually dealing with here?”
Riki’s eyes flicked toward your house again—like the answer was written behind your window.
Shota said absentmindedly, lips pursed as he looked down at the dirt beneath his shoes. “She didn’t say nothing happened.”
“What?” Leehan furrowed his brows.
“She just got mad. She never said what did or didn’t happen.”
Riki walked backwards to his house, arms spread in vindication. “Hm. And you fuckers didn’t believe me.”
Leehan rolled his eyes so hard it was audible. “Relax, Socrates. All she confirmed is that she hates your guts.”
Shota pointed at Riki with a half-shrug. “Yeah, bro, don’t act like this is some big ‘gotcha.’ She didn’t say you were lying…but she also looked ready to kick your shit in.”
Riki dropped his arms, irritation sliding back in. “Still. None of you believed me.”
“Because your track record is dogshit,” Leehan said. “You lie about stupid shit all the time. One time you said you could backflip off Shota’s porch and you landed on his mom’s hibiscus.”
“Hey, that flowerbed recovered,” Riki muttered.
“No, it didn’t,” Shota said. “She still brings it up at family dinners.”
Riki threw his head back with a groan. “Bro, can we stay on topic?”
Leehan crossed his arms. “Cool. That means we’re back to the original question: what actually went down?”
Riki’s jaw ticked. He turned slightly, like the angle would help him dodge the question.
Shota wasn’t letting him. “Bro. We’ve known you since you had Lego hair. Just spit it out.”
A long beat.
Riki’s tongue pressed against his cheek, eyes dropping to the sidewalk. “I’ll catch y’all later.” He turned around fully to walk back up his steps.
“Wh—hey!” Shota calls out.
Shota jogged after him, grabbing the back of his tank like a mom snagging a toddler about to run into traffic. “You are not gonna hit us with the dramatic exit when you’re the one who started this whole novella.”
Riki yanked his shirt free with a scoff. “I didn’t start anything—”
“You literally did,” Leehan yelled from the sidewalk. “You started it with your mouth. And continued it with your mouth. And escalated it with your…actually? Still your mouth.”
Riki spun around, eyes wide, offended. “Can the both of you get off my jock? Damn!”
Shota pointed at him, calm and judgmental like an annoyed substitute teacher. “No. Because you’re being a loser. And I say that with love.”
Riki lifted both hands to his face, dragging them down like he could physically wipe the embarrassment off. “Y’all are the worst friends alive.”
“And yet,” Leehan said, stepping closer, “we’re the only ones who can save your dumbass from getting rocked by your girl.”
“She’s not my girl!” Riki snapped instantly, which absolutely no one believed.
Both boys blinked at him like he’d just said the sky was green.
Shota said. “And I’m Scooby Doo.”
Leehan pointed at the door behind Riki. “Stop stalling. We asked what happened. You clearly don’t want to say it. Why?”
Riki’s throat bobbed.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Shifted his weight.
Looked everywhere except at them.
Then booked it right into the house. Locking the door behind him with a click.
Shota and Leehan just stared at the locked door like it had personally offended them.
A beat.
Then another.
“…Did he just—?” Shota blinked.
“Yeah,” Leehan said flatly. “He ran.”
—
The rest of the night was a weird one. It felt like your college nights. Locked away in your space, biding the time until you were finally set free from the deadlines and expectations and able to leave. To be with your family but your friends most importantly.
All three of those boys meant something differently to you; and it almost made you worry about how your life would’ve transpired if you hadn’t been put next to them for talking too much.
Leehan was the diplomat. The water to everyone’s fire as the eldest one of the quartet. The one that spoke when you four were sent to the principal’s office for setting off a stinkbomb in Mrs. Jenson’s art class.
Shota was always in his own world. But he meant it for all of you. He was nearly impossible to hate to the point where if you were too mean to him, you’d start crying. Not only was he unreasonably peculiar at all times, he was the friend that you’d call in the middle of the night just to talk and he’d answer like he wasn’t mid rapid eye movement.
Riki was always very tricky. The rhyme was not intended, I promise. He was the wild card. The spark. The kid who lived like he had a personal vendetta against boredom. He’d drag you into trouble with a grin, swear you were overreacting, and then somehow sweet-talk the consequences down to a warning. He could charm adults, piss off authority, and get the three of you laughing in the same breath.
But he was also the one who always noticed.
When you were too quiet. When your knee bounced under the desk. When you smiled but didn’t mean it.
He’d nudge your foot with his sneaker. Or toss you a note. Or mouth a stupid joke until you cracked.
Riki was complicated. Not in the dramatic way—more in the “why does your chest feel weird when he looks at you too long” way.
Tonight he had you feeling everything except calm. You lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling like it contained answers or at least a refund policy for emotional tax. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that made your thoughts echo.
Shota, Leehan, Riki. Your boys. Your constants. Your headaches.
You exhaled slowly, sinking deeper into your mattress. You’d kill them before you ever lost them. Probably.
Just then, you nearly jumped out of your skin as you heard a sharp knock on your window. Turning your head to the right, you almost fell off your bed as Riki stood there—tall and looming over your window in a black hoodie.
He lifted a hand and knocked again—lighter this time, like that made it any less insane.
You hissed under your breath, scrambling off the bed and practically tripping over your blanket as you marched to the window. Sliding it up, you whispered harshly, “Are you out of your mind?!”
Riki blinked at you, equal parts guilty and stubborn. “You weren’t answering your phone.”
“So your next idea was breaking into my house?”
“It’s not breaking in if the window’s unlocked,” he shrugged, already hooking his fingers over the sill like he was about to climb in whether you liked it or not.
You smacked his hand. “Try it and I’m calling the cops.”
“You won’t.”
“I absolutely will.”
“You won’t,” he repeated, annoyingly sure.
He leaned closer, breath puffing in the cool night air. “Can you just—” His jaw clenched. “Let me talk to you.”
You crossed your arms. “Talk from out there.”
Riki shot you a look like you were being intentionally difficult. (You were.) “It’s cold.”
“It’s a Californian summer night, it’s sweater weather at best.” You shrug haphazardly.
“I’m anemic.”
“No. I’m anemic.”
“Same difference.”
“Go.” You lightly pushed him back and out of the windowsill. “Don’t you have gang members to go rob a bank with, hard-ass?”
Riki’s face twisted like you’d just accused him of running a puppy-smuggling ring. “Rob a—what?!” he whisper-yelled, gripping the window frame before you could shut it. “You think I’d rob a bank with them? Half those dudes can’t even do basic math!”
“Sounds like a personal problem,” you said, trying to pry his fingers off the sill.
He held on tighter.
You glared. He glared back, a standoff worthy of a Western, except you were in pajamas and he looked like a raccoon rifling through trash.
“Why are you still here?” you hissed.
“Because,” he snapped back in a whisper, “my name is getting dragged through the mud, my best friend hates me, my other two best friends think I’m an idiot—”
“They’re right.”
“—and you still won’t let me explain!”
You gripped the window and started lowering it—slowly, deliberately—like a villain pressing a big red button.
Riki’s eyes went huge. “Don’t you—don’t you dare close this window on me.”
You kept lowering it.
“Bro—” Down another inch.
“Are you serious right now—” Another inch.
He shoved his hand under the frame, blocking it like some tragic action hero trying to stop a garage door from crushing him. “I’m not finished!”
“You said plenty,” you replied, voice flat as drywall. “So we’re even.”
“I didn’t get to say anything!” he whisper-yelled, face squished awkwardly under the descending window. “Okay—I said a little. But not in the way you think—ow, that’s my knuckle—can you just—STOP—”
You paused just long enough for him to yank his hand out before he lost a finger.
He immediately slapped both palms on the windowsill, breathless, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “What is wrong with you?!”
“You came to my window at—” you checked the analog clock on the wall, “—one forty-six in the morning looking like you crawled out of a crime documentary and I’m the problem?”
He pointed at you, indignant. “Yes!”
You pushed the window down another inch. Closing it.
He groaned, “oh come on you can’t—” He watched you lower the blinds, your narrowed eyes the last thing he saw before you closed the curtains. “Please?” Riki sighed, leaning against the window as he called out. “Come on, open up for me? Please—”
The TV you had on only increased in volume.
Riki’s head thunked against the glass like he was trying to transfer his brain cells through osmosis. “Are you—are you SERIOUS right now? You’re gonna drown me out with The OC?!”
You didn’t answer.
Cue the theme music swelling louder.
“Boo.” Knock, knock, knock. “Bunnyboo, I know you hear me.”
Silence.
Another knock, faster. “Bro, don’t do me like this. At least yell at me through the glass. Throw something. Flip me off. Give me anything!”
You turned the TV up another two notches.
He pressed his forehead to the window again, palms flat, voice dropping low—half pleading, half warning. “Don’t make me climb in here. I swear to God, I will break in like a raccoon with a vendetta—”
A pillow smacked the glass from inside—the clanging of the blinds as it hit the hard surface.
He flinched. “…Okay. Message received.”
But he didn’t leave.
He stayed right there—pacing once, twice—before finally planting himself on the little strip of concrete beneath your window, sitting down like he paid rent there. Legs stretched out, hoodie bunched at his elbows, head tipped back against your siding. “Come on…” He whispered to himself.
He rubbed both hands over his face, dragging down like he could physically peel the stress off. “I’m gonna die out here,” he muttered. “She’s actually gonna let me freeze to death on suburban concrete. Damn.”
You muted the TV for two seconds—just long enough for him to perk up—before turning it right back on. He deflated so hard you could practically hear it.
“Wow,” he said to the night sky. “She’s evil. She’s actually evil. And she wonders why I lie awake at night thinking about—”
You whacked the window again with another pillow.
He jumped. “HEY—okay, okay! I take it back! You’re not evil, you’re just—” He paused, searching for something nice. “—temperamental.”
Another pillow hit the glass.
He held both hands up like he was being detained. “How many pillows do you have?!”
For a moment, he just sat there, breathing out shaky frustration, knees bent, arms draped loosely over them. The porch light cast him in soft gold, and for once he didn’t look like the loudmouthed, idiotic menace who’d started this whole mess.
He looked like someone who’d been losing his mind over you all night. And then—quietly, almost too quiet: “…Boo. Please let me fix this.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tapping anxiously.
“I didn’t tell them what you think I did,” he said, softer. “I swear. I didn’t make you look stupid. I didn’t—” His voice caught. “I didn’t disrespect you. Not the way you’re imagining.”
You froze behind the blinds.
He exhaled like the words tasted bitter. “I didn’t even tell them everything. Not the stuff that…mattered.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the roots.
“You think I’m out here playing around,” he said. “But I’m not. And I don’t know how to prove that when you won’t open the damn window.”
You didn’t move. He didn’t expect you to.
He tilted his head back against the siding again, eyes closing, breath leaving him in a quiet, frustrated laugh. “Fine,” he murmured. “I’ll sit out here all night if I have to.”
A pause.
“Knowing my dumbass? I probably will.”
Then, he heard movement from inside the house. Leaning into the siding did he lean up as his heart rate jumped. He stood up, brushing his sweats off as he walked around the front of the house. Only for him to be met with your mom—robe, bonnet, and sleepy-face in tow.
Riki froze mid-step, eyes widening like he’d just walked into a horror scene. “Uh…hi?” His voice cracked somewhere between sheepish and terrified.
Your mom blinked at him, hands on her hips, taking in the hoodie, the sweatpants, the midnight energy radiating off him like a storm cloud. “Riki Nishimura,” she said slowly, voice low but deadly calm. “What exactly are you doing on my lawn at—” she glanced at her phone—“almost two in the morning?”
“I—uh—” He raised his hands like a surrendering cartoon character. “I had to go to the store for Reo. I forgot my keys and now I’m locked out…” This wouldn’t be the first time he’s lied to your mom, it was just about whether she’d believe him. “I called him a few times and he’s not answering so…”
“So…you couldn’t go to either of the other boy’s houses? You had to come to my daughter’s?”
Riki’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He looked like a fish trying to talk its way out of being dinner. “Well—okay—hear me out,” he blurted, already panicking. “I would sleep at Shota’s but he snores insanely loud and the last time I did, he almost suffocated from the pillow I put over his face. And Leehan is entirely too particular about how I sleep like he wants the bed split right in—”
Your mom gave him a look so dry it could’ve dehydrated a cactus. “Inside. Now. Before I start asking real questions.”
Riki nodded so fast his hood nearly flew off. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”
But as he followed her toward the door, he couldn’t stop the tiny, hopeful glance he threw toward your window—praying you hadn’t heard any of that, even though he knew deep down…you definitely had.
He kicked his shoes off as he entered, “I promise I’ll be out—” he whispered.
“Shut up, you’re not a guest here. I love you, goodnight.” She yawned as she walked the opposite way to her room.
“Love you too, sleep well.” He whispered back.
Riki stood in the hallway like someone who’d just been adopted and arrested in the same breath. He watched your mom disappear down the hall, the soft shuffle of her slippers fading.
He took two small steps forward. Then froze when the floorboard under him squeaked loud enough to wake the dead. He saw your shadow moving around in your room from the small sliver of light that poked through the gap of the frame and door itself. His gut told him to speed up down the hall. To which he did—swiftly—before you could close the door on him.
But he beat you there, wedging himself in. “Gotcha.” He beamed, shimmying through as he closed it softly behind him.
“Are you crazy?” You whisper-yelled. “Coming into my house like this? Lying to my mom?!”
“I’m just as crazy as you are.” He unzipped his hoodie, tossing it onto the rack on your closet door. “Don’t act like you haven’t lied to Reo however many times—”
“That’s different. If we’re gonna be out late or something but—”
“Look, I don’t care about any of that. I came to fix things with you.” He stepped forward, ensuring you looked up at him. “Just hear me out…two minutes.” You studied him—hair messy from the wind, shirt rumpled, socks mismatched, eyes big and tired and a little frantic. You hated how familiar he looked in your room. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d slipped in after midnight.
“You get one.” You nod once. “And take off those dirty ass pants.” You sighed as you turned to your drawers. Scouring until you landed on a clean pair of black sweats.
With some rustling behind you, Riki stripped out of his pants. Revealing his black Calvin Klein boxers that you loved so much. That he knew you went crazy for.
“…Did you seriously just—?”
“What?” he said, way too innocent for someone in nothing but briefs in your bedroom at two in the morning. “You told me to take ‘em off.”
“I meant go change in the bathroom, you psychopath.”
He blinked. “Why would I walk all the way to the bathroom when your room is right here?”
You stared at him.
He stared back like this was the most logical sentence any human had ever spoken.
“Riki,” you said slowly, pointing the sweats at him like a weapon. “Put these on before I throw holy water at you.”
He snatched the pair from your hand with a tiny smirk—one he tried (and failed) to hide by looking down. “You always give me the soft ones,” he murmured, pulling them on.
“Well they’re yours…” you sigh, plopping right onto the edge of your bed.
He froze mid–pull, waistband halfway up his hips. “…What?”
You blinked at him. “What, what?”
He let the rest of the sweats snap into place, slow, like his brain was rebooting. “Did you just say they’re mine?”
You groaned, falling back on your palms. “Yes, Riki, congratulations, you own a pair of cotton-poly blend sweatpants. Don’t let it go to your head. So what? You’ve been here like a trillion times.”
But of course it did. You watched the shift happen in real time—his shoulders relaxing, his mouth tugging into that stupid boyish half‑smile he only ever got when he felt special.
He toed his discarded pants into a pile and padded over to you, the soft thud of his mismatched socks making him look criminally at-home in your space. “They’re mine,” he repeated, quieter this time. Like he’d just been handed a family heirloom instead of laundry.
You rolled your eyes. “Riki, don’t get sentimental, it’s literally the third time you’ve forgotten to take them back.”
He dropped down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “Still counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does,” he said, leaning back on his hands so his arm pressed along yours. “‘Cause that means when I come over…you expect me to stay.”
Your breath stuttered—just barely, but enough.
His voice softened. “And I know you’re pissed. And I know you’re pretending you’re not glad I’m here.” A beat. “But you said they’re mine.”
He nudged your knee with his. “Let me explain, Boo. Please.”
Your knee bounced, nerves bubbling up in the pit of your stomach as you looked down at your hands in your lap. “You promised, Riki. That you wouldn’t tell anyone what happened that night.”
Riki’s breath caught—not loud, not dramatic, just this tiny break in his chest like your words had clipped something vital. He didn’t move at first. Just stared at you, jaw set, eyes searching your profile like the truth might be written somewhere on your cheek. “I…I didn’t tell them in a malicious way.”
You turned your head as your anger bubbled up in your stomach. But he knew how to placate you. “No, no, no…listen. Look at me.” He gently grabbed your shoulders to turn you to face him. “Damn, you’re like a pitbull.”
You slapped his hands off your shoulders instantly. “Don’t call me a pitbull.”
“You are a pitbull,” he shot back, whisper‑yelling. “Small. Angry. Bites without warning.”
“I’m literally taller than you,” you snapped.
“You are not taller than—okay, you know what, that’s not the point.” He dragged a hand down his face, regrouping, then looked at you with that maddening mix of exasperation and adoration that made you want to smack him and kiss him in the same breath. “Listen to what I’m saying.”
You crossed your arms so hard your shoulders creaked.
He leaned forward, matching your intensity with his own. “I was just doing it for your protection.” He watched your face blend into confusion. “Not from the guys, from the guys my brother deals with.”
“Um…?”
“While you were gone, some of them were saying that they were gonna get at you when you came back. Obviously by that point, me and you already…” He trailed off. “And it was under wraps. But the way they were talking,” he shook his head, his tongue poking his cheek as he recalled the repulsive language. “I had to ‘claim’ you. Let them know you were mine.”
“I’m not an object, Riki.”
“I know, Boo. I know. I didn’t wanna put you in that position but I had to for the sake of those guys leaving you alone when you got back.”
Your brows pulled together, the heat in your chest shifting—still anger, but now tangled with something colder, sharper. “That’s not protection,” you said quietly.
Riki winced like you’d flicked him right in the soul. “I know. I know that. And if there was any other way—literally any—I would’ve taken it.”
You stared at him, trying to read past the excuses, past the dramatics, past the Riki-isms he wrapped himself in like bubble wrap. But his eyes weren’t dodging. Nor were they defensive. Just tired. And tense. And…a little fearful.
Your voice softened a notch. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
He huffed out a laugh—dry, humorless, one shoulder lifting. “Because you’d say exactly what you’re saying now. That I don’t get to ‘claim’ you. That you’re not a trophy. That you don’t need saving.” He added, “plus by that time you were at your retreat, didn’t have your phone. Was I supposed to send a smoke signal? Letter in a bottle?”
“It would’ve been appreciated.” You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I can’t stand you sometimes.”
Riki groaned, “dude, you’re so immature.”
“Me?!” You gasped, “I’m immature yet you fold under zero pressure and stutter when you lie?”
“Don’t do that. We’re grown now, I shouldn’t even be lying to anybody.”
“Right. So telling your groupies about our night of passion was sooo grown?”
He smiled, boyishly. “So you thought there was passion?” Slowing reaching his hand over to your waist before you smacked it away.
“No! I’m just saying that you’re a dick and never consider me for anything. Not me, Leehan, or Shota.”
Riki looked at you like you had three heads. “Are you—what are you talking about?”
You scoffed, “how did they even find out? Leehan told me that only he and Shota knew. Now you’re saying that—”
“I told them after the fact so they wouldn’t have to hear it from anybody else!” He stood up, “gosh, how low do you think I am? Like, do you really think I’m just some loser?”
Your head snapped up at his tone. He wasn’t yelling, but the hurt in his voice sliced sharp enough.
“Riki, that’s not—”
“No, because you’re talking like I’m out here giving press conferences about our business.” He pointed at himself, brows furrowed, genuinely offended. “You think I’d embarrass you like that? You think I’d embarrass myself like that?”
You opened your mouth, shut it, then crossed your arms tighter. “I think you do dumb things without thinking.”
His laugh was one sharp exhale. “Yeah? So do you.”
“That is not the point—”
“It is,” he cut in, stepping closer, eyes locked on yours with that frustrating intensity that made your stomach flip. “Because you’re acting like I’m some clown who doesn’t care about you. Like I’d run around bragging about us to look cool. That’s not me. That’s never been me.”
You faltered. Just a hiccup. Barely noticeable—except he noticed everything. “So telling people about us having sex on a summer night—”
“God, what do you not get?!” He put his hands out in frustration, “I didn’t tell anyone for fun! Or to lie on my dick—not that it was even a lie. I did it because otherwise, you’d have some weird ass guys pushing up on you and I can’t have that. For my sanity or your safety.”
You sighed dramatically, crossing your arms as you looked away from him. Turning your head away like you were a child.
“Look at me.” Riki said firmly but to no avail.
“Hm.” You shrugged as you crossed your legs. Your bare legs rubbing together over your checkered pajama shorts.
He shook his head. “Dude, you need to grow the fuck up and stop acting like a petulant child.”
You snapped your head back toward him so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. “Petulant?” you echoed, voice shooting up an octave. “Oh, wow. Big word. Did you eat a dictionary for breakfast or—”
“See?” he barked, throwing his hands up. “That! That right there!”
“What right there?!”
“You act like you don’t care but then you get mad like you care the most.” He pointed at you like you were a math problem he’d been failing for years. “You can’t even look at me without doing the dramatic little eye-roll-head-turn combo—”
“I do not—”
“You do,” he cut in, stepping forward, voice firm, eyes sharp. “You’re doing it right now.”
Your jaw dropped. “I am not—”
“You are,” he repeated, exasperated beyond mortal comprehension. “And it’s fine—like, it’s actually kinda cute when you’re not actively trying to ruin my life—but right now? Right now I need you to stop pretending you’re five years old and actually hear me.”
You scoffed so loud the walls probably shook. “Five years old? Riki, I swear to God—”
“No, seriously.” He crouched down a bit so he was more level with you, eyes narrowing just enough to make your pulse jump. “Grow. Up.”
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened.
You were halfway to telling him off when he added, annoyingly soft:
“I’m trying to talk to you. Not fight. Not yell. Talk. But you’re making it impossible.”
You blinked at him, chest tight, fury and embarrassment and something dangerously close to vulnerability twisting together.
His voice dropped low. “Stop looking away from me. I hate when you do that.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He leaned in, jaw tight. “And it makes me feel like you don’t care.”
That sentence froze you mid-breath. “…What?” you whispered.
Your heartbeat kicked up so loudly you were sure he could hear it. You sat there, arms crossed, shoulders tense, but eyes finally—finally—on him.
Riki looked back at you with an honesty that stripped every smart remark right off your tongue.
“Stop acting like I’m some villain,” he murmured. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.” He reached up, brushing a curl that fell out of your ponytail—behind your ear. “And with that funky ass temper, I can’t get a word in.”
You stare at him for a moment, tilting your chin to the side his hand was on as your eyes flit to the side. Like you were almost embarrassed to enjoy physical touch from him. “Riki.”
“Yes?”
“How long have you known me for? Do you remember?”
His hand froze halfway down your cheek like you’d just hit him with a pop quiz he absolutely did not study for.
“…Huh?” he blinked.
You sighed, leveling him with a stare that could’ve melted steel. “How long have you known me? Since when?”
Riki straightened, shoulders pulling back as if bracing for impact. “Since we were seven.”
“And in all those years,” you continued, voice low, “has there ever been a moment where my mouth hasn’t gotten me or one of us into some type of trouble?”
He pursed his lips in thought, his eyes seeming to search through the crevices of his brain. “Um…no not really.” Riki looked back from ages seven to twenty—trying to assess when your sharp tongue and impulsive actions hadn’t done them well.
“See?” You smiled in jest. “And you guys just accept me for me. This is who I am. And the fact that you hate it now all of a sudden—”
Riki rolls his eyes, frustration flaring in his chest. “No one’s saying we don’t accept you,” he retorts, his tone firm. “But just because we’ve put up with your bullshit for years doesn’t mean you can’t be held accountable for your words and actions. This isn’t some free pass to act like a brat whenever you want.”
“Yes it is!” You laugh, “because I accept you for all your shit. You’re like a diet version of me.”
Riki’s whole face twisted, “please. You’re the most mini-me of anyone I know.”
“Are you trying to son me?”
Riki laughed, leaning into you as he laid his head on your shoulder. “You are my son, you wanna be like me soooo bad.”
You shoved his forehead lightly. “Shut up.”
He blinked at you, affronted. “Don’t hit your daddy.”
You smacked him again.
“HEY—”
“Keep talking like that,” you warned, “and I’m putting you in the home early.”
He leaned back, pointing at you like you were the crazy one. “You can’t put me in the home. You’re my dependent.”
“Riki, I am older than you.”
“That’s what makes this so embarrassing for you,” he said, absolutely delighted with himself. “Imagine being older and still being my mini-me.”
Your eye twitched so violently he had to bite back a laugh.
Then he softened, just a little—head tilting, voice dropping. “Come on, Boo. I’m messing with you.” His shoulder nudged yours. “You know I don’t think of you like that.” Leaning his head back on your shoulder as he reached down for your hand. “I’m sorry, again.”
You tried—tried—to keep your spine stiff, arms crossed, jaw tight. But the second his fingers brushed yours, your whole posture betrayed you. Your hand didn’t curl around his, but it didn’t pull away either. It just…sat there. Suspiciously compliant.
You exhaled, staring at the wall like it might give you divine guidance.
“I know.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I messed up. I scared you. I made you feel played. I talked too much, I didn’t talk enough—I know.” He lifted his head just enough to look at you. “But I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear to God, Boo, every dumb thing I did was me trying to keep you safe.”
Your throat tightened despite every effort to swallow the feeling down.
“And I know you don’t like being protected,” he added, voice threading into something shy. “But you matter to me. In a way that makes it hard to think straight sometimes.”
Ever since you could remember meeting him, Riki had been your protector. And the worst part? He’d never even asked for the job.
He just…took it.
The kid who yanked you out of trouble before you even recognized it. The teenager who stood in front of you during every argument you started. The grown man now sitting in your bedroom at two in the damn morning, wearing your/his pants and looking at you like you were the whole reason he learned how to fight in the first place.
His knuckles grazed your jaw as he leaned in, nudging your cheek with his nose the way he always did when he was trying to make you smile. It worked—of course it did—your laugh spilling out small and helpless. “Your hero, your knight…” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. The smile that followed wasn’t cocky or teasing, but something almost…bashful. Like he couldn’t believe he’d earned the right to say it out loud. “Remember?”
But the word hero didn’t even begin to cover it.
He’d been a shadow and a shield, a tether and a torch—always one step ahead of whatever chaos you were about to fling yourself into. He carried your messes like they weighed nothing, shouldered your storms like they were summer rain. Half the time you wondered if he’d been assigned to you at birth, like some overworked guardian angel who accidentally got attached.
And you did remember. Every version of him. Every moment he’d stepped between you and the world like it was instinct. Like saving you was simply something he knew how to do—before he even knew how to save himself.
“Mhm,” you nodded—barely, quietly, like admitting it too loudly might crack something wide open between you.
His eyes softened even more at that tiny sound, as if your agreement carried an entire lifetime of shared secrets. His fingers slipped from your jaw to the side of your neck, feather-light, tracing the spot he always touched when he was trying to ground you…or ground himself. You could feel the tremor hiding in his thumb. He was steady for everyone else—impenetrable, unshakable—but with you? His armor always rattled just a little.
“Good,” he whispered, almost like he needed reassurance. Like he was afraid you might’ve forgotten who he’d always tried to be for you.
You hadn’t. God, you hadn’t.
If anything, the memories rose up all at once—him grabbing your sleeve before you stepped into the street at eight years old, him taking the blame for something you’d said at twelve, him pulling you behind him during the campfire argument at fifteen, eyes dark and jaw set like he’d burn the whole forest down before he let someone talk to you sideways. Him now, sitting inches from you, still trying to guard you from something invisible in the room.
He leaned in a little closer, forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice lowering like the hour demanded honesty. “I always wanted to be that for you,” he said. “Even when you didn’t need me to be.”
Your chest tightened—not painfully, but in that terrifyingly sweet way that told you he meant every word. “It’s not like I need you anyway…” You smile shyly as you nudge him with your elbow.
“No?” He laughed, “you don’t need me, Boo?” He beamed, wrapping his arms around your waist—pulling your side into him.
You shook your head, “nope—oof! Dude—”
Burying his face into your neck as he blew raspberries into it, he pulled you back flat onto the bed as you both laughed. You hit the mattress with a soft thud, breath catching in your throat before dissolving into helpless laughter. “Riki—stop—!” you wheezed, kicking a leg uselessly as he doubled down, arms locked around you like he’d been waiting all night for an excuse to tackle you.
He blew another loud, obnoxious raspberry against your neck, the kind that made your whole body jolt. “Don’t need me, huh?” he taunted, his words muffled against your skin as he climbed on top of you. “Say it again. Go ahead. I dare you.”
You tried to twist away, but his grip only tightened, warm and solid and stupidly comforting. “I don’t—!” you squeaked, halfway grinning, halfway choking on your own breath. “I don’t need—Riki, seriously—!”
“Liar,” he declared, without even giving you a chance to finish, pressing his forehead into the curve of your shoulder like you were some sort of pillow he owned. “Biggest liar I’ve ever met.”
You fought him for another second—maybe two—before your muscles gave out in that familiar way they always did around him. The laughter faded into a soft, breathless quiet, the room still humming with the echo of it. His weight settled over you, heavy and warm, like he’d decided this was his new home address.
He exhaled against your neck, softer this time—pressing a gentle kiss there before he raised his head. Nose to nose with you as you both smiled when your eyes met, his voice dropping back to something unbearably gentle. “How was school? You haven’t found my replacement yet, huh?”
“Nuh-uh…no one could ever replace you.”
His lips quirked—not into that smug little smirk he wore when he was winning, but something smaller, almost startled. Like he hadn’t expected you to hand him an answer that soft, that honest, without putting up some kind of fight first.
His fingers brushed your waist, thumb tracing slow, unconscious circles like he was memorizing the shape of you. “Yeah?” he murmured, the word barely more than a breath. “You saying I’m…irreplaceable?”
You rolled your eyes, but it came out ruined—too fond, too warm. “That’s literally what ‘no one could ever replace you’ means.”
His thumb paused mid-circle on your waist, the warmth of his touch lingering like a question he was scared to ask out loud.
“Yeah, but…” he said slowly, eyes flicking over your face as if trying to read something between your lashes. “You say stuff like that and then pretend we’re just—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Nothing.”
Your breath caught. Not because he was wrong, but because he was painfully, dangerously right. “We are nothing,” you said a little too quickly, a little too defensively. “Like—we have to be. You know how it’d look if anyone found out.”
Riki stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was green. “How it’d look to who? Our friends?”
“Yes!” You sat up slightly, annoyed that he wasn’t getting it. “If they think I’m sneaking around with you, it’s gonna make everything weird. I don’t want Leehan or Shota or anybody else thinking there’s…a thing. I don’t want a rift.”
“A rift,” he repeated, deadpan. “You think you and me laughing at two in the morning in your bed is gonna break up the Fantastic Four?”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.” He tugged you a tiny bit closer by your hip, eyes locked on yours. “Boo, we’ve gotten through worse. They’re not gonna fall apart because we—” He hesitated, jaw working. “—because we care about each other differently now.”
You swallowed hard, your voice smaller now. “I just don’t want them picking sides.”
His expression softened like melting wax. He leaned his forehead to yours again, gentler this time. “No one’s picking sides. Not unless you start picking fights again, and even then I’m still betting on you.”
You snorted, the tension easing just an inch.
He took the opportunity, slipping a hand up your back, grounding you with his warmth. “Look,” he murmured, “I get not wanting to make waves. I do. But don’t pretend this is nothing just to keep the peace.”
Your heartbeat thudded once, sharp and loud.
“Because it’s not nothing,” he whispered. “Not to me.”
“I know, Riki…Just—please?” You bring your hand up to his cheek, brushing his chiseled jaw. Though he shook his head slowly with soft eyes, you whispered—lips brushing against his as you mumbled. “Please, for me? Please…?”
His breath hitched the second your lips grazed his—soft enough to deny, close enough to ruin him. His eyes fluttered half-shut, like he couldn’t decide whether to lean in or back away before he did something stupid. “Baby…” His voice was barely sound now, more exhale than words. You felt it against your mouth, warm and shaky. “You know I’d do anything you asked.”
You nudged closer—not kissing him, not quite, just letting the shape of him press into the shape of you. Your palm was warm on his jaw, your thumb sweeping the curve of his cheekbone. His breath stuttered again. “But you’re asking me to pretend,” he murmured, eyes opening fully. “To pretend I don’t…feel this. With you. About you.”
Your fingers flexed at his skin, and he shivered.
“I’m not asking you to pretend,” you whispered back. “I’m just asking you to help me protect what we already have. Before anyone else gets involved. Before it turns into drama or sides or expectations. I just…want us. Quietly. Carefully.”
His jaw clenched under your hand—less anger, more restraint. The kind he only ever showed with you.
“And if I say yes,” he asked, voice low, “does that mean I only get you in moments like this? When the door’s closed and everyone’s asleep?”
Your throat bobbed.
“If that’s what it takes to make sure that we don’t ruin our group.” you whispered.
For a beat, he didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you, his forehead pressing to yours like he was steadying himself on the only thing that hadn’t ever failed him.
Then he exhaled, long and quiet, his hand sliding from your back to cradle the side of your neck. “Fine,” he murmured. “For you.” His nose brushed yours, gentle, aching. “But don’t ask me to act like you don’t mean something to me. Even if no one else gets to know yet.”
His thumb traced your throat, slow, deliberate. “I can’t fake that. Not even for you.”
—
The next morning
—
“Cousin?!” Leehan called out to his mom as she moved through the kitchen. “What cousin?!”
Mrs. Kim sighed as she chopped up vegetables, using the knife as a pointer to gesture to the basket of laundry on the counter that she needed her son to fold. “My friend from high school, Alexa, is sending her daughter to go to school here.”
With a roll of the eye, “school or university? Neither start for another month and a half.” He goes to fold some of the shirts in the basket. Tucking in the small ones of his younger brother and sister.
“She got into USC. I thought she could stay here, hang out with you and your friends. Just to get acclimated.” She says, looking down as she chops up a carrot. “Her mom’s staying back in Honduras where they live now and she just wanted to get out. See the world other than where she’s from. You get it.”
Leehan sighed, “we don’t need another buddy; and why do we need another person in here? It’s already crowded as is.” His little siblings breeze past him, pushing him into the counter as they giggle—running amok in the kitchen and living room.
Mrs. Kim slammed the knife down with a sneer. “No playing in the living room! Go in the yard!”
The two little ones scattered instantly, shrieking as they bolted for the back door. Leehan winced, rubbing the spot on his hip where a rogue elbow had caught him. “See?” he muttered. “Chaos. Pure chaos. And you wanna add another college student into this circus?”
His mom didn’t even look up as she slid the carrots into a bowl. “She’s not just any college student. She’s Alexa’s daughter. And she’s never lived away from home before. She’ll need support.”
“Support,” he echoed flatly. “Right. And by support you mean me.”
Mrs. Kim shot him a look that could level a grown man. “I mean all of us. But especially you. You’re the oldest. Responsible. Reliable.”
He blinked. “Mom, you asked me to unclog the shower last week and I nearly passed out from the smell.”
“Exactly,” she said, patting his cheek. “Builds character.”
He groaned into the laundry basket. “And what’s her name?” he asked, voice muffled in defeat.
“Xiomara.”
Leehan lifted his head like she’d just announced they were adopting a Bengal tiger. “Xiomara?” he repeated, slowly, like the name itself was a threat. “Mom, that sounds like a girl who walks into a room and immediately ruins my life.”
Mrs. Kim swatted his arm with a dish towel. “She’s very sweet!”
“That’s what people said about Riki before he started bossing me around,” he muttered.
From outside, one of his little siblings shrieked triumphantly, followed by a loud thump. Mrs. Kim didn’t even flinch. “You’ll take her around, introduce her to your friends, show her the area—”
“Mom.”
“—help her move in, make sure she’s eating—”
“Mom.”
“—maybe drive her to orientation—”
“Mom!”
Finally, she looked up.
“What?”
“I’m not a babysitter,” he huffed. “I barely babysit them.” He pointed out the window where one of the kids was trying to climb the garden hose like it was a rope in gym class.
Mrs. Kim clicked her tongue as she went to chop some garlic. “She’s not a baby. She’s eighteen.”
Leehan’s soul left his body. “EIGHT—Mom, that’s literally barely legal! I can’t be seen hanging out with a kid! I’m twenty! People will think I’m recruiting!”
Mrs. Kim pursed her lips, squinting her eyes as she clutched the knife tighter in her hands. No words were spoken as she tapped the surface slowly.
Leehan froze.
Not because she looked angry—but because that tap? That knife-tap? That was the “choose your next words like your life depends on it” tap.
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay. Alright. That came out wrong.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He gulped.
“What I meant,” he corrected quickly, “was that—uh—eighteen is…young. Very young. Like ‘still doesn’t know which side of the street has the bus stop’ young.”
His mother didn’t blink. “Continue.”
“And!” he added, voice cracking like a man under interrogation, “—and I am not qualified for mentorship. I’m barely feeding myself on time. I had cereal for dinner yesterday.”
“That’s because you refused to eat the stew I made.”
“It had mushrooms!”
Tap. Tap.
He winced.
Mrs. Kim sighed through her nose, the way women do when they’ve raised three children, a husband, and apparently now one extra stray. “She is not a kid. She is a guest. A guest who will be living under my roof. Which means she will be treated like family.”
Leehan nodded rapidly. “Right. Family. Like a sibling.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Perfect,” he said.
A beat.
“Except,” she raised a brow, “you will not treat her like you treat your siblings.”
He blinked. “Why not?”
“Because you terrorize them.”
“I don’t.” He shakes his head.
“I’m not arguing with you, son.”
“Fine.” He nods in relent. “So…where’s she gonna sleep?”
“Your room.”
The words landed like a brick to the skull.
Leehan straightened slowly, arms going stiff at his sides. “My…room,” he repeated, making sure he hadn’t misheard. “As in—my room, where I sleep. Where my stuff lives. Where I—exist.”
“Yes,” his mother said simply, drying her hands on a towel. “She needs a space that’s clean and quiet. And yours is the only one that makes sense.”
He stared at her, chest tight. “Mom, my room is my only space. The only place in this entire house that’s not—” he gestured around at the chaos, the abandoned toys, the scribbles on the fridge, the sticky handprints on the cupboards— “that.”
“I know,” she said, and her voice wasn’t sharp this time. It was steady. Unmoving. “Which is why I’m trusting you with this.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. The weight behind her words was unmistakable.
“She’s coming here alone,” Mrs. Kim continued softly. “No family. No support system. No familiarity. She’s walking into a country she doesn’t know, a language she barely uses, a school she’s hardly seen. She’s still a child to her mother, no matter how old she is.”
Leehan’s breath stalled.
“She needs safety,” she said. “And stability. She needs someone who won’t overwhelm her or talk down to her. At least give her sympathy.”
He pressed his lips together, throat tightening.
“And you,” she added, looking him in the eyes now, “are the one I trust the most to give her that. Not because you’re perfect. But because you’re my son and I raised you to take care of people always.”
Silence.
A thick, heavy silence.
He let out a slow breath. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll move my things.”
Mrs. Kim nodded, relieved—but not triumphant. “Thank you.”
He stared at the floor, at the laundry basket, at nothing in particular.
“…What’s she like?” he asked after a moment. Not annoyed. Not sarcastic. Just…trying to understand the person stepping into his life.
His mom paused, thinking. “Smart,” she said. “Kind. Quiet. More observant than she lets on. But she's a nice girl, you guys would like her.”
He nodded once.
Then again.
“Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll be good to her.”
“I know you will.”
A beat passed—the kind that settles into the air, makes everything feel more real.
“What time does her flight get in?” he asked.
“One hour.”
His eyes widened. “Mom—”
“Go,” she said, waving him off. “Take the car, I’ll move your stuff.”
He grabbed his keys, heart pounding as he jogged toward the door.
And as he makes his way out to the beat up driveway, he comes across you walking up his porch. He steps back, soft laughter as he puts his hands up in defense. “Woah…gonna bite my head off, Chihuahua?”
“Shut up,” you cross your arms—rolling your eyes as you resist a laugh. “I left my bag here yesterday. I’ve come to retrieve it.”
He nods affirmatively, brushing past you as he gently yanks a curl of yours on his way down the steps. “It’s in my closet.”
You reached down to swat his arm. “Where you going?”
He turns back, one foot already on the next step, breath still a little fast from the sprint out of the house. The sunlight catches on his face, softening everything he’s trying so hard to keep steady.
“Airport,” he says simply.
Your brows pull together. “Now?”
He huffs—short, almost incredulous—as if he just realized the timing doesn’t make any damn sense either. “Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Apparently I’m a morning person now.”
You blink at him. “Since when?”
“Since today,” he says, dead serious.
There’s no joke behind it. No smirk. He’s standing there looking wired, focused, too awake for someone who hasn’t even had breakfast yet.
You tilt your head, studying him. Something in his voice is different—quieter, heavier. “Family?”
He hesitates. Just long enough for the truth to flash across his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Kind of.”
“Can I ride with you?” You shrug, “I’m bored and I have literally nothing else to do.”
He jerks his chin toward the driveway, already moving, steps quick and purposeful. You follow him down the porch, your shoulder brushing his for half a second—a tiny contact, but he feels it. You can tell by the way his breath stutters before he masks it. Annoyance but patient in some way.
The car beeps unlocked.
He opens the passenger door for you without a word. You lean against the door before you sit, preparing to ask him something. But as you do, a voice calls out:
“Oi! Where are you two off to?”
You both turn to see Shota coming from across the street—backpack in tow as he bounces over. His dyed, blond hair shining in the beaming sun. “You two know I have attachment issues.”
You laugh softly as you brush your hair off your shoulder. “Ask your best friend, his mood is shot.”
Leehan sighed, “my mood isn’t anything, Bun—I just have to go and you’re making me late.”
“Late for what?!” Another voice calls across the street.
It was weird, yet convenient how your guys’ houses were lined up. The best way to describe it would be akin to a square and its vertices. Right beside Leehan was your house. Directly parallel to you was Riki, then parallel to Leehan was Shota.
Riki jogs down his driveway, one hand raking through his hair, the other shoving his keys into his pocket like he’s already annoyed at the world and hasn’t even reached the sidewalk yet.
He eyes the three of you gathered around Leehan’s half-opened car door. “What’s happening?” he asks, breath a little uneven like he’d been rushing.
Shota throws his hands up dramatically. “A betrayal is happening. They were about to leave me. Again.”
Leehan’s jaw flexes. “No one’s betraying anyone. I just have somewhere to be.”
Riki’s gaze flicks to you, quick and sharp, then to Leehan—reading the tension instantly. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Leehan mutters.
You answer for him. “He’s lying. Obviously. He opened the car door for me without calling me a dickhead. I’m concerned.”
Shota gasps like you’ve announced a national emergency. “Oh that’s new.”
Leehan drags a hand down his face. “Can you three—just this once—not be—”
“Entertaining?” Shota offers.
“Observant?” Riki adds.
“Inconveniencing?” you finish.
He looks heavenward, praying for strength. Then he jerks his thumb at the car. “Just get in. All of you.”
“Yay!” You and Shota cheered simultaneously. Riki smiled softly as he opened the back passenger door for the older guy to get in.
Shota slid in the backseat, putting his backpack down by his feet—settling into the seat as he fanned himself. “Can you turn the AC on? It’s like a toaster oven in here.”
Leehan makes his way around the van. “The car’s not even on yet, genius.”
Riki snorts, “move over,” he tapped the top of the van as he waited for Shota to shimmy to the other side. But before he could even put his leg in, a deep, raspy voice—diagonal from the driveway called out for him. “Riki!”
All four of your guys’ attention went in the direction of the sound. The birds chirped over the white noise of the block as somehow the sky clouded over. Reo.
You sighed, rolling your eyes as you turned your back again. Leaning against the car with your arms crossed.
Reo was already discussed previously. Not in any depth anyway because as much as he seemed to matter to Riki—he mattered to you as well.
As an enemy.
As an older brother, though, he was Riki’s sole caregiver and provider amidst their parents not being around. While Reo had to juggle being fifteen and taking care of his ten year old brother, he ensured that Riki was in school, was fed, and had what he needed to essentially have a normal childhood just as anyone else.
However, as Riki grew and started to demand (not literally, but metaphorically) the presence of their mom and dad—Reo didn’t know how to handle it. Couldn’t fathom or configure the idea of wearing so many different hats at once. Mom, dad, brother, nurse, personal wallet, cheerleader, chauffeur until Riki was sixteen, the list goes on.
Leehan, Shota, and you had always had the luxury of support by parental figures—something Riki didn’t have—but it was always afforded to him. Never did any of your parents turn him or Reo away for anything because they knew how hard their circumstances were. But no one dared to call social services because it meant that both boys would be lost in the abyss of the American foster care system and of course, everyone has heard such great things about what happens there.
If either of them needed food because Reo’s check didn’t clear—they got it. Christmas gifts. Clothes. Hot water. Anything in the world, those boys had it as long as you, Shota, and Leehan did.
But once Reo graduated high school (with a C average, just by the skin of his teeth)—he knew to follow in the legacy that his father had left him with—R12. Leaving him to stay in Freeridge and get Riki through middle school, high school, and everything else.
And things seemed fine. Reo was going to work. Participating in the gang dealings that both boys seemed to be familiar with but the older they got, the more the cracks started to show.
Riki learned how to be multiple people at once—a friend, support system, an advocate for all three of you…and Reo’s little brother, the kid everyone in R12 kept an eye on because Reo would set the whole block on fire if anything happened to him.
But it was a lot more complex than that. Reo ensured Riki wasn’t touched, ensuring he didn’t lose his respect. But something shifted once Riki turned fifteen.
He stopped caring about the sanctity of Riki’s youth. Disregarded everything that mattered when it came to his brother.
Riki had dreams. Ones that seemed small to others but too big for Freeridge.
And it was simple: make it out.
Since he was a kid, Riki had wished upon a star, tossed a coin into a fountain, closed his eyes extra hard during every birthday wish, wrote a million times under his pillow—for his entire life—the same wish.
To leave.
Not to abandon, not to forget—just to escape the gravity of a place that had never loved him gently. Riki wanted sunlight without bars across it, air without someone else’s name on it, choices that weren’t choreographed by a gang legacy he never asked to inherit.
Reo saw that dream as an insult.
Because to him, leaving meant rejecting the only thing he had ever been good at. The only thing that kept a roof over their heads. The only thing that made him valuable in a world that chewed him up at fifteen and spit him out as a man.
So when Riki talked about getting out—going to college, traveling, anything that didn’t involve the R12 sign—Reo didn’t hear hope. Just betrayal.
And that’s when the shift happened. No more rides to practice. No more checking if Riki ate. No more showing up to school events pretending he wasn’t bone-tired.
Instead—cold orders. Sharp warnings. A hardness that didn’t belong in a home but lived there anyway.
Reo stopped seeing Riki as a kid. Stopped seeing him as a brother. Started seeing him as a liability—someone who wanted to run from the very life Reo had bled to keep intact for him.
Riki never said it out loud, not to you, not to anyone. But every time Reo’s voice cut through the street, every time those R12 men watched him too closely, every time his shoulders went rigid—
You could tell. Because you knew these three like yourself. If you were an impulsive, neurotic, hotheaded chihuahua then Leehan was a pressured, ticking time bomb with oldest sibling syndrome. Shota was a mildly deluded individual that blocked out the negativity in the world by living by his rules. Like Riki was a hurricane contained in a bottle—soft and mesmerizing one moment, destructive and untamable the next. He absorbed everything around him—the chaos, the expectations, the danger—and carried it with a grace that no one else could sustain. But inside, that wish to escape, to be free of Freeridge and the shadows of R12, was a constant pressure, a weight that bent him without breaking him.
And you could see it in the way he flinched when Reo’s name was mentioned, in the subtle tension in his shoulders when someone lingered too long on the block, in the way he smiled a little too hard, laughed a little too loud, just to convince himself he was still okay.
He was caught between worlds: the world he wanted, and the world that had claimed him before he even knew how to fight for himself. And you—well, you understood that storm better than anyone.
The older brother in question jogged across the street. His gaze never left his little brother the whole time. When he finally made it to the driveway, Reo—now twenty-five—stood before you and everyone.
Him and Riki were exactly the same height. A nice six foot one. Reo’s presence hit like a wall, all angles and edges and deliberate weight. His hair, dark and cropped close on the sides, caught the sun in streaks of bronze where it had faded at the tips. His jaw was sharp, square, defined, with the faintest shadow of stubble that made him look older than his twenty-five years. Eyes like storm clouds—a very dark brown—hovered between calculating and exhausted, the kind of eyes that had seen too much too young.
Broad shoulders, strong arms, and a chest that filled out his fitted shirt made him look like he could carry the weight of the street on his back. Even his stance—feet planted just so, fists loose but ready—spoke of someone who had fought to keep everything together, someone who moved with both authority and quiet warning. Every detail about him—the set of his brow, the crease at the corner of his mouth, the way his gaze flicked to Riki first—was a reminder that he wasn’t just an older brother. He was a force.
But he wasn’t impolite.
He scanned the rest of you three with a masked smile. Bending down slightly, poking his head into the van—he caught Shota’s view. “Hi, Shota.”
The guy nodded silently, waving his hand as he put one of his wired earbuds in.
“Donghyun,” he nodded as he looked at Leehan—who leaned against the car with his hands and opened his palm. Hardly smiling but just enough to acknowledge the elder.
Then finally, his eyes fell to you. More like your side profile as you refused to even look at him. The last time you laid eyes on him was the day you left for college—so nearly a year ago. You hadn’t visited during breaks, money was too tight for you to come back and forth.
Watching him stand on the sidewalk beside his younger brother as the three of you all drove onto the next part of your lives was probably the most sadistic thing you’ve seen out of him. The memory was like a picture in your mind. Him, resting a hand on Riki’s shoulder as their eyes hadn’t left you. Like he was reminding him of what he never wanted to come to fruition for Riki.
“Bunnyboo…” he called out with a smile. “You look beautiful. I’ve missed you.”
You stiffened at the voice, the familiar tone threading through the warm morning air, carrying all the weight of his presence. That smile—something in it was the same as before, teasing yet measured, like he had rehearsed it a thousand times to keep control—but there was an undercurrent there, an edge of something almost vulnerable, something carefully tucked beneath the force of his usual armor.
“Hm.” You inhaled, arms tightening as you crossed them.
He probed on though, “you’ve grown. You still carry your Bratz dolls in your backpack?”
You scoff, smacking your teeth. “That was like fifteen years ago.”
Reo chuckled, a low, controlled sound that somehow carried both amusement and a trace of disbelief. “That long, huh? I feel like that’s the kind of thing that sticks with you forever,” he said, eyes flicking briefly to the gold, nameplate necklace with your actual name on it. The one you wore every single day since you were a kid. There was a softness in that look, fleeting, but it was there—an acknowledgment of the person you were then, the person you’d become.
You rolled your eyes, brushing a curl behind your ear. “Yeah, well, some of us grow up,” you said, trying for a casual tone, though your voice carried just enough bite to hint that you weren’t entirely relaxed.
He took your jab and let it roll down his back. His tongue poked his cheek as he turned to Riki. “We got business.”
Riki’s shoulders tensed, the familiar flicker of unease crossing his features. “Business? Now? At nine in the morning?” His voice carried a note of incredulity that didn’t quite mask the edge of confusion.
Reo didn’t look at him, didn’t even blink. His gaze was fixed, sharp, deliberate, scanning the block like he already knew every corner, every potential obstacle. “Now,” he said again, voice low but iron-strong. “We move fast, or it’s done before it even starts.”
You leaned back slightly against the car, arms still crossed, observing the quiet, absolute command in his posture. Every movement was deliberate, economical—Reo didn’t waste energy on theatrics. Even the way he stood beside Riki, that protective shadow, made your stomach knot. The tension wasn’t just between the brothers—it radiated outward, threading through the air around everyone else, a subtle, undeniable warning.
Riki exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Okay…” He turned to the three of you with a look of frustration. “I’ll see y’all when you get back.”
You watched him hesitate for a moment, shoulders stiff, jaw tight, before he finally gave a small nod. “Be careful,” you muttered under your breath but loud enough for him to catch.
Reo’s eyes flicked toward you, the storm behind them softening just a fraction, like he recognized the weight of your gaze. No words, just a subtle tilt of his head—a silent acknowledgment. Then he turned, and with practiced precision, started walking down the street, Riki falling into step beside him like a shadow, smaller but unwilling to be left behind.
The van sat there idling, warm in the morning sun. You pressed your palms into each, trying to calm the sudden tightness in your chest. The air seemed heavier, charged, as if the space around them carried all the years of responsibility, anger, and unspoken plights between the brothers.
Shota leaned back against the seat, muttering, “Damn. That’s…intense.”
Leehan just shook his head, lips pressed together. “Yeah. That’s Reo for you. Always been that way.”
You stayed quiet, watching the figures recede, knowing that once they disappeared around the corner, the street would feel smaller—and emptier—but the echo of their presence would linger, a quiet warning you couldn’t ignore.
—
The drive south to LAX was relaxing, you on the aux as some music played comfortably. As Leehan pushed the van down the freeway, you hummed along to the music as you watched the world pass you by.
But of course, silence was always short-lived as it pertained to your friends. “So, I assume you and Riki are together again?”
You turned to him with a flabbergasted, yet offended expression. “I’m sorry?”
His eyes widened, tightening on the steering wheel. “I said, ‘I assume you and Riki are hanging out together again?”
“Oh…”
“...as in, you guys aren’t fighting anymore?” He leaned back as he signaled to move to another lane.
“Oh…yeah.” You nodded as your heart rate simmered a little. “Yeah, we squashed it.”
“So what happened?” He said absentmindedly as he turned the music down a little so he could hear you properly.
You gulp, keeping your eyes looking out of the window. “Nothing. We just agreed to…chill, you know. No beef.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Leehan laughed, “you were at his throat less than a day ago and now things are just squashed? What actually happened between you guys? Is what he said true or not?”
This was the thing you hated about lying: the guilt of it. But the fact that you had to think of a lie, say it convincingly, then remember it was entirely too stressful.
Riki didn’t even want to keep this up. He wanted to show you off, hold your hand walking down the street, kiss you whenever he felt like. Not in the dark or behind closed doors within the confines of your rooms or the city’s outskirts. But of course, he was a simple man—and entirely too easy. Whatever it took to be with you, he’d do it.
But your fear of commitment and judgment superseded anything that either of you could want.
“No, we didn’t sleep together.” You said with finality. “He just said that because some of the idiotic R12 members were talking about getting at me. So he—” You used air quotes, “‘put a claim on me’ so that they wouldn’t try anything.”
“So why didn’t he tell us that he did that?”
You somehow reached a flow state. “Because he knows how you two run your fat mouths. It’s just better if everyone thinks the same thing, I guess. That way he doesn’t have to remember who knows what.”
Leehan’s brow arched so high it was nearly touching his hairline. “Mhm. Right. Because he’s soooo organized like that.”
You shot him a glare sharp enough to slice bread. “Can you just drive?”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes still on you. “Nah, because something’s not adding up. Riki said one thing. Shota and I heard another. You acted one way. And now this?” He motioned in a circle at your whole existence. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar,” you snapped.
“So you admit that you’re lying?”
You groaned, sliding lower into your seat until you were practically melting into the upholstery. The anxiety sat in your chest like a cinder block. Keeping a secret relationship hidden from a man like Leehan—who was basically a human lie detector fused with a nosy aunt—felt like trying to hide a fireworks show behind a napkin.
And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong. Your lies were getting thinner, shakier, stitched together by panic. You felt the guilt creeping up your throat—warm, prickly, accusing.
Leehan glanced at you. His voice softened just enough to unsettle you. “Are you scared of him?”
You blinked. “What? Who?”
“Reo.”
You laughed, actually laughed at how off he was. “Please, that dickhead has nothing to do with this.” You folded your hands over your stomach as you crossed your legs in an effort to warm them from the blasting air conditioner. “He doesn’t scare shit over here.”
“So what are you hiding and why lie about it?”
“Oh my god,” you groaned. “Bitch you are so fucking nosey!”
Leehan grinned like a cat who’d finally cornered a mouse. “Yeah. And?”
“And mind your damn business!”
“It is my business,” he argued, turning onto the main road like he wasn’t detonating your blood pressure. “Because every time you lie, Riki acts weird, and when Riki acts weird, I get dragged into some emotional bullshit I didn’t ask for.”
You clutched your chest dramatically. “So now I’m inconveniencing you?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even hesitate. “My chakras are weighed down.”
You stared at him. “You don’t even know what chakras are.”
“I know yours are clogged with secrets.”
You slapped his arm—not hard, but enough to make him jerk the wheel a little. “Leehan!”
“Hey! Assaulting the driver is crazy.”
“Being the IRS of my personal life is crazy.”
He snorted, glancing over at you for half a second. “So you admit there’s something to tax?”
Your jaw dropped. “I didn’t say that!”
“You said it with your face.”
“Shut up.”
He hummed, smug, fingers tapping the wheel like he’d solved a crime. “One day, you’re gonna tell me.”
“One day,” you shot back, “I’m gonna push you out of a moving vehicle.”
“Good,” he said, nodding. “Maybe the fall will knock the truth loose.”
“I wish death on you. A slow, agonizing death. But until then,” you sighed. “Which terminal are we headed to?” You gestured ahead to the iconic big white letters that indicated your arrival.
“Terminal B…” Leehan sighed as he leaned forward, inspecting the bustling airport and the pedestrians making their ways through.
You reached behind you to grab Shota’s backpack, shuffling through it for his bag of sour gummy worms. The owner of said bag extended his hand for you to give him some, not even speaking because he had his own music playing.
You dropped a few gummy worms into Shota’s waiting palm, then tore one in half with your teeth like a feral squirrel. “Thank you for your service,” you mumbled around the candy.
Shota gave you a thumbs-up without looking up, completely zoned out to whatever playlist he lived on. You swore the guy could sleep through a tornado but wake up instantly if someone opened a bag of snacks within a five-mile radius.
Leehan eased the car into the arrival lane, glaring at the chaos like it personally offended him. “Why are airports always like fever dreams?” he muttered. “Every time I come here, I lose five years of my life.”
“Who are we scooping anyway?” You say through a mouthful of candy. “An uncle or some shit?”
“No, my cousin—well…she’s not blood but…” He shrugs as he grabs a gummy from the bag.
You snorted, “I got you, that’s just how people of color work, I guess. Everyone’s a cousin.”
He nodded, “yeah, but this is my first time meeting her. Her mom and my mom went to high school together way back when. Then they moved and shit, now her daughter is going to uni here in the States. Or…will be.”
You furrowed your brows inquisitively, “where are they from?”
“Honduras.”
Your brows lifted in surprise as a smile hit your face. “Oh snap, look at Mrs. Kim knowing people. Mrs. Worldwide.”
Leehan snorted, shaking his head. “Please don’t gas her up like that. She already thinks she’s Pitbull.”
You laughed, leaning back in your seat. “No, because I know she be telling people she’s multicultural just for the fun of it.”
“She does,” he said flatly. “She told her nail tech last week she ‘turns up’ when she listens to reggaetón. Like who says that anymore?”
You slapped his arm. “Shut UP.”
He groaned. “I was like, Mom…you don’t even know who Bad Bunny is.”
Shota, still munching gummies with one earbud in, glanced up. “She thought his name was Benny.”
You wheezed. “Isn’t his name Benito? She was close.”
“Not the point.” Shota smiled, taking another gummy worm. “I just don’t get how…”
Shota’s joke faded into the background, but you barely heard it. Something in your chest shifted—tightened—like a knot being pulled slowly, deliberately, until it demanded to be acknowledged. Everything seemed like white noise.
You watched the crowds outside the car, people dragging luggage, hugging relatives, starting trips, ending them. Moving. Living. And it hit you—hard—that Riki should’ve been here. Should’ve been laughing with you all. Complaining about the LA traffic. Stealing Shota’s gummies and flicking his ear just because he could.
He should’ve been in this moment.
But he wasn’t. Because he was stuck.
Your fingers curled around the bag of candy, knuckles whitening. The thought rose before you could stop it, blooming sharp and aching in your chest. You didn’t say anything at first—just let the idea sit there, heavy, terrifying, obvious.
You didn’t even realize you’d spoken until you heard your own voice.
“…I want him out.”
Leehan looked over. “Who?”
“Wait, I didn’t even do anything…” Shota said with a frown.
You kept your eyes straight ahead. If you looked at either of them, you’d talk yourself out of it. “Riki. I want him out of R12.”
Shota sat up, the surprise on his face softening into something more careful. No jokes this time. No easy shrug.
The words kept coming, quiet but sure, like you’d been holding them back for years.
“I keep thinking,” you said, voice low, “about all the things he’s missing. All the things he’ll keep missing because Reo won’t let him go.” You shook your head slightly. “I can’t stand the idea of him still being there while the rest of us get to…grow. Move forward. Be young. Be stupid. Be normal.”
Leehan’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t interrupt. Neither did Shota.
“He had the best grades out of all of us in school. Joined clubs, made friends, community service, everything. All down the drain because his selfish older brother couldn’t see past Freeridge. But it’s time for me to be selfish, guys, because I want more. For him.”
You swallowed hard. “And I don’t know…maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s impossible, but I just—” you exhaled shakily. “I keep thinking there has to be a way to get him out. Really out. A way to give him a chance at the life he keeps pretending he doesn’t want.”
Shota let out a slow breath through his nose, like he was trying to process ten different emotions at once. “You’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he murmured.
You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.
Because once the thought crawled into your chest, it refused to leave—this stubborn, aching truth that wouldn’t unclench its grip. Riki laughing on a couch that wasn’t surrounded by lookouts. Riki sleeping without one eye open. Riki showing up to dumb little hangouts like this one, rolling his eyes, complaining about the snacks. Riki choosing things instead of surviving them.
You blinked hard. “I hate that I’m starting to picture him as a memory while I’m still alive.”
Shota’s jaw flexed. Leehan’s stare stayed glued to the road, but his knuckles had gone white.
“He’s not gone,” Leehan said quietly.
“No,” you agreed, throat tight, “but you know how that life is. You either end up in prison, dead, or both. And I don’t even want to think about either.”
Shota shifted, like the words physically hit him. “Don’t say that,” he muttered, but it wasn't a reprimand—it was fear.
You stared down at your hands. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Neither of them did.
The signs passed, blocking the sun for a moment—casting a shadow across the windshield, washing the car in gold every few seconds. Each flash made the ache in your chest feel sharper, more real, like the world itself was trying to illuminate a truth you’d been avoiding.
“I keep replaying stupid things,” you said softly. “Like him talking about wanting to visit a college campus. Or saying he wanted to see snow for the first time. Or—” your breath trembled, “—how he used to say he wanted to get out of Freeridge before he turned twenty-one.” You swallowed again, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “He says it like a joke now. Like something he already accepted he’ll never have.”
Shota looked out his window, voice barely above a whisper. “He stopped talking about the future altogether.”
That got you. A quiet, painful exhale left your lungs. “Exactly,” you murmured. “It’s like he’s already grieving a life he hasn’t even lived.”
Leehan finally spoke, low and certain. “Then we don’t let that happen.”
You turned your head, heart thudding. He wasn’t saying it like a fantasy. He was saying it like a plan.
“We figure out a way,” he continued, eyes still on the road but voice steady, “to give him a real shot. A clean break. Something he can’t walk away from, even if he tries.”
✰ synopsis: four childhood best friends thought distance wouldn’t change them. but when you come back home to freeridge after your first year of college, a buried secret and gang politics collide—testing loyalty, love, and the block that raised them.
✰ run time: 17.1k words
✰ mpaa rating: TV-MA — fictional universe (on my block / freeridge, california.), coming of age kinda, found family, morally grey characters, swearing, “secret relationship”, implied sexual content, angst, fluff, banter, drug use and mention, underage drinking, distorted self-image, jealousy, situationship to lovers IM SORRY PLEASE, arguments, gun violence and gang shit, crying, summerween (as per gravity falls love that show), socioeconomic commentary, crude humor (some boundary pushing, but what is art without such), breaking the 4th wall a lil bit (it’s kinda fun i promise)
viewer's discretion advised.
✰ authors note!! (important): hey, welcome to the circle. this, alongside other fics in the future, will be apart of my “as seen on tv” series where i essentially make fics based on my favorite shows! i rmm doing this during my wattpad days but now it has gotten a name and a full blown makeover seeing as i am way more skilled than i was 5 years ago (or at least i’d like to think so).
these fics will literally be a mixture of me writing from memory of the show’s events, creating new scenes and dialogue (obvi, this won’t be a fic ON the show), creating whole new tales but just within the universe itself, etc. some may be oneshots, some may not be! i will make that judgment based on if i feel the fic calls for it or not. but the circle will have more than one. and there will be an upload schedule upon completion (i'm far along already dw), so make sure you turn that tv on.
this is a pilot!! more so, a temperature check to see how we're liking it thus far and if you want more.
you do not need to have watched the shows to understand fics. these can be read separately from the shows. though, it would be more fun!! i’d always recommend on my block as it is one of—if not—the greatest netflix series of all time. it’s all up to you.
soundtrack to enhance reading experience: spotify | apple
You’ve only been back in Freeridge, California for ten minutes and somehow your feet already know where to go.
You grew up on this block—this cracked sidewalk, that bent stop sign, the same sun-faded corner store where y’all used to beg for Slurpees after school. Childhood friends turned family: you, Shota, Leehan, and Riki. Neighbors since tricycles and scraped knees.
You walk up to Leehan’s house—still has the red folding chairs on the porch, the one with the wind chime—and see him and Shota inside through the window, arguing over something stupid like always.
At this point, you knew this house like you knew your own. If you were ever even really there anyway. You’ve spent summers, weekdays, weekends, school years—almost—in this home and it got to a point where you didn’t even have to knock. And if you did, then the door would always open for you because you had a key.
With a lively spirit, you barged inside—duffel bag in tow as you saw two out of your three best friends politicking on the couch. “Hey, assholes!”
Leehan paused in his movements, eyes widening just a bit before his jaw slacked. “You’re back…”
You dropped your duffel by the door with a now deflated look. “Did you expect me to stay in the woods for the whole summer?”
“Yes—I mean, no. No…we didn’t—no we didn’t. Right, Shota?” He turned to the younger, watching as he was on his phone—not even minding the interaction. “Dude!” Leehan snapped as he beamed a pillow at him.
With a thud, Shota’s phone hit the couch. “Yo—oh hey,” he looked at you with a smile. Standing up, opening his arms as he walked closer to you. “I missed you, Bun.”
“Yeah, at least someone did—ooh!” You grunted as Shota strong-armed you, wrapping his arms around you as he lifted you off your feet. “I missed you too, bro.”
He smiled at the words, “you smell like an airplane.”
Laughing, you wrapped your arms around him. Shota wasn’t always the brightest, but he was bright in every other way.
Shota, Leehan, and you all returned from your first years of college and though you didn’t get home right away—you were offered by your school’s writing club to go on a retreat with them after the semester finished. It was fun, enriching, and about five weeks. In a way, it was like summer camp for adults and it was nice to just unplug for a while after a hectic semester.
All three of you attended different schools. And while that was a hard summer’s end—you knew in some way it’d be good for you. The longest all four of you had been apart was a singular day since you were all seven years old. So eleven years later—after endless sleepovers, fights, makeups, robbing convenience stores blind, and late night phone calls—saying goodbye and seeing your cars go in different directions was the hardest thing you ever had to do.
“I missed you guys,” you said softly.
Leehan sighed, giving up his seeming distressed demeanor. “We missed you too,” he joined you and Shota as he wrapped his arms around you both. “How was everything?”
You were too enraptured in the comfort of being in the arms of your friends to realize that there was a third of your heart missing. “It was good…Learn-y, school-y.” Your feet still dangled in the air as you scanned the room; even eyeing the bathroom door for a moment hoping someone would come out. But knowing that it was early noon—Leehan’s little siblings were at day camp and his parents were working. None of them would be back until later in the day.
But even then, something felt hollow. Wrong. And you knew it when you only felt two pairs of arms around you. “Where’s Riki?”
Leehan’s arms stiffened first.
Not dramatically—just this tiny, telltale pause like his brain hit a speed bump. Shota let you down from his hug a little too fast, brushing his hands on his shorts like he suddenly needed something to do.
You frowned. “Hello? I said: where’s Riki?”
Leehan cleared his throat. “Uh…he’s, um…not here.”
“No shit. Where is he?”
Shota wouldn’t look at you. He kept glancing at Leehan like he wanted permission to talk.
“Guys.” You crossed your arms. “I’ve been home for ten minutes and you’re both acting like I asked you who killed Kennedy.”
Shota chimed in, “wasn’t it Harvey Lee Oswald?”
Leehan’s eyes didn’t leave you as he put his finger on Shota’s chest. “Lee Harvey Oswald and Riki’s…just not really around.” He shook his head as he walked to plop down on the couch.
You tilted your head in confusion. Eyes squinting as you had trouble connecting the dots. “What does that even mean? Did he move or some shit?” Crossing your arms as you approached him.
“We just—just drop it, man.” Leehan sighs. “Riki’s irrelevant.”
Your lips parted in surprise as you drew back. “Since—what? He’s been our best friend and neighbor since we were in the second grade and he’s suddenly old news?”
Shota interjected, “can you guys walk with me to the store? I want some chips.”
Without looking at him, you nodded to the door.
Shota tugged his hoodie on and headed out first, leaving you and Leehan in this thick, uncomfortable silence that felt wrong in a house you practically grew up in.
The walk to the corner store was familiar—same cracked pavement, same graffiti that had been there since middle school—but the energy between the three of you was off. Shota kept kicking a pebble like it personally offended him. Leehan jammed his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders tight.
Halfway down the block, you tried again.
“So we’re really not talking about it?”
Leehan exhaled hard through his nose. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
You snorted. “You’re lying. You’re bad at it. And you only get this weird when it has to do with some type of drama.”
Shota slowed his steps just enough for you to catch up. “Look…things got messy while you were gone.”
“What does that mean?”
Another shared look. You hated that look. It meant you’re not gonna like this.
Leehan ran a hand through his hair. “He wasn’t…he wasn’t really hanging with us much. We barely see him anymore.”
“So? We were away. He stayed back because of his stupid ass brother. We know that.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes.
Reo, Riki’s older brother, is heavily involved with a local gang—R12.
R for the family’s first initial. 12 for the street you lived on.
The kind everyone on the block pretends not to see but knows better than to cross. The name carries weight. Trouble, too.
When junior year rolled around, all four of you discussed college and looked forward to moving onto the next chapter of your lives. Shota, Leehan, Riki, and you all thought about attending the same school. Just fun, adulthood, parties, no rules.
But senior year happened and things got serious. Reo was all Riki had. Their mother passed years ago, father was hardly around and Reo had to sacrifice school to follow his birthright: the gang. The same gang everyone warned you about, the same one Riki swore he’d only ever be “adjacent” to.
It wasn’t a choice—more like gravity. Reo demanded more, and Riki got dragged with him. It started small. Doing quick runs, disappearing in the middle of sleepovers, seeing him with small bruises on his ribs.
While the three of you were filing your FAFSAs, Riki hadn’t even made his login yet. Because he foresaw it, he knew that it just wasn’t in the cards for him. Reo made sure of it.
“Man, fuck him. Who even cares…?” Shota rolled up his sleeves as he kept walking.
You shot him a look. “You care. Don’t start lying now. And don’t talk about him like that.”
He didn’t respond—just kept walking, steps quick, like he could outrun the conversation.
Leehan let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s more than just him going through that. There’s…other stuff.”
“No,” you snapped. “Explain it. Because right now you two sound like you’re mad at him for not juggling college applications while dodging gang members.”
Shota kicked at a crack in the sidewalk. “It’s not that.”
“So what is it?!” You snapped, throwing your hands up in anger. “Bro, I’m tired of the fucking riddles like come on! What the fuck happened between when y’all got back and now?” Like usual, your temper was starting to overcome you but you inhaled sharply before the heat ran down your neck and into your gut. “Why are you guys talking like he’s public enemy number one? You have five seconds before I find him myself.”
Leehan looked at Shota wearily, like he was asking for backup but knew he wasn’t getting any. Shota just shrugged, wide-eyed, like you handle it, bro, and suddenly the air felt thick enough to chew.
Leehan dragged a hand down his face. “Because he said some shit, okay?”
“That’s vague as hell.”
He tried again. “He told us something about you.”
You stared at him. “Like what? That I eat my toenails? That I punch idiots that take too long to get to the damn point? What?”
Shota winced like he knew a bomb was about to go off. “He told us that you two…hooked up before we left this year.”
Your mouth parted, breath catching. For a second, you didn’t even react—your brain was too busy finding scenarios in which it’d be solid to break into his house and strangle him while he was sleeping. Nah…the front door was too obvious. All of our houses only have one floor so maybe taking a crowbar to his window wouldn’t be such a bad start. Then the anger hit—fast, hot, bright.
It shot up your spine, tightened your jaw, curled your hands into fists before you even realized.
Leehan took one look at your face and actually stepped back. “Okay—alright—let’s not do the murdery face right now.”
“Murdery?” you scoffed. “Leehan, I’m being polite. You don’t wanna see murdery.”
Shota nodded too fast. “Yeah, she’s being polite, bro. Super polite.”
You didn’t even hear them. Your mind was still stuck on the image of Riki opening his stupid bedroom window at three in the morning to look at the street…only for you to be standing there with a crowbar like, hey bestie, remember me?
“Look,” Leehan put his hands on your shoulders as you heaved—a way of trying to push the anger below your feet. “We didn’t even believe him. We knew it was some bullshit and he didn’t tell anyone else. Just us and…just…” He pursed his lips. “Don’t worry, it’s contained.”
You shook your head as tears stung your eyes. Fists curled as you closed them and tapped your sneakers against the concrete. “I’m not gonna kill him.”
“Mhm, you’re not gonna kill him.” He encouraged.
“So you’re not gonna kill him?” Shota asked, a look of slight disbelief on his face.
“Not gonna.” You inhaled and exhaled smoothly as you opened your eyes. Letting the cool, Californian breeze run through your curly hair. “I’m going to chop his dick off with a cleaver and feed it to him.” You smiled as you backed up, booking it down the street.
Leehan didn’t even get to yell your name before you took off—full speed, booking it down the block with murder in your eyes.
“BRO—GO! GO!” Shota yelped, sprinting after you like his life depended on it.
Leehan was right behind him. “WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS! YOU CAN’T JUST—HEY!”
But you were already gone—cutting corners, hopping curbs, powered by pure betrayal and cardio-fueled vengeance.
By the time they caught up, you were stomping up Riki’s steps, fist balled, and Shota barely managed to grab your arm as you slammed your hand against the metal screen door.
“RIKI!” you barked, pounding again like the door owed you money. “OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”
The house door hummed a little as there seemed to be music playing from the inside. So loud that you don’t even think your banging made a difference.
“Dude, no—” Leehan walked forward, winded as he tried to reason with you. Shota grabbed him before he could advance further. “Just let her…”
Without another word, you forced the door open. The conversations inside cease abruptly. A huge group of guys, probably ranging from late teens to even late twenties, are scattered throughout the house as your view was clouded by thick, strong smelling smog. Through it, the opened door was able to let some of it out for you to see through. The living room was nearly trashed: beer bottles, ashes, wrappers all over the floor as your brows knitted tighter with every step you took inside.
The air was so dense you could taste it—like someone had hotboxed the entire zip code. The music thumped from somewhere deeper in the house, heavy bass rattling the picture frames and your last remaining nerve.
A couple dudes on the couch froze mid-laugh, eyes widening like they’d just seen a ghost with anger-management issues. One guy halfway through rolling a joint dropped the paper entirely. Another blinked at you through the haze, squinting like you were a hallucination he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Leehan and Shota hovered behind you in the doorway, both coughing like old men who’d wandered into the wrong nursing home.
“Goddamn,” Shota muttered. “Even my eyelashes are high.”
“Focus,” Leehan hissed.
You scanned the room—wrappers, beer bottles, someone’s shoe (just one), a chair flipped upside down like it hadn’t survived the last round of whatever chaos went down. And on the wall, barely visible through the smog, a neon light flickered BEER PONG CHAMPIONS, only barely hanging on.
Your voice came out low, deadly, and devastatingly clear:
“Where is Riki?”
The boys closest to you stiffened like you were pointing a gun, not a question. Their eyes darted toward the hallway as one of them lifted a shaky hand and pointed to the kitchen.
You didn’t even thank him.
You just stepped forward, shoulders squared, fury so sharp it cut through the haze better than the open door ever could.
Behind you, Leehan whispered, “Yeah, no, she’s gonna kill him.”
Shota sighed, resigned. “We can at least make sure it’s quick.” It was weird, kind of bizarre seeing you disappear into the smoke.
“Nuh-uh, I’m not going in there with those people.”
As you walked through and turned the corner to the kitchen, you saw him standing in a small crowd with a blunt hanging from his fingers. The moment his eyes found yours, they glazed over. You weren’t sure what exactly you saw in them. They were red, a little hazy and sleepy looking. But seeing you, blew it all.
“What the fuck is wrong with your brain?” You stomp over to him. “Huh?! I leave for writing camp and this is what I’m welcomed by?”
Riki blinks at you, clearly caught off guard by your sudden appearance. He quickly leaned off the surface as he put the blunt out on the counter—not caring if it left a mark. “Woah, hey—”
One of his other associates, a guy with some ridiculous fine line tattoos, cuts in. He eyes you up and down with a condescending smirk. “Who the hell is this chick?”
You turned to him. “This chick is Riki’s supposed childhood best friend. But I guess he wouldn’t know that.” Your attention goes back to Riki. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Disrespecting me like that to our friends?”
The guy stepped to you, his chest puffing up in anger. “Watch your mouth, little girl—”
“Alright,” Riki shook his head as he shifted his body to him. Shaking his head as his high was now fully blown. “You better watch your mouth,” his finger wagged slowly as it lightly rested on the elder’s chest. “Take that bass out of your voice, thank you.”
The tension in the room thickened, the music playing through the house seemed distant now as you watched Riki come to your defense. It wouldn’t be the first—a part of you hoped it wasn’t the last either. But the air seemed heavier than it did thirty seconds ago.
With a final sneer, the guy brushed Riki’s hand off. “Fine. But keep your friend under control, Riki. We don’t need any outsiders causing any problems.”
“I’m an outsider?!” You laugh humorlessly, “please ask—” you approached him angrily but before you could get closer, Riki grabbed you by the arm—his grip surprisingly strong. Pulling you aside in the kitchen “Yo, yo—calm the hell down.”
“Don’t tell me to—”
“Go outside.” He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t have to. It was the tone. Low. Firm. The same one he used back when you’d get worked up over group project partners who didn’t do their share. Except this time, the stakes were way higher than a C-minus.
You yanked your arm, ignoring how warm his hand had been. “I’m not going outside. I’m not done talking to you—”
“I am not having this conversation in front of them,” he hissed, eyes flicking toward the guys watching like it was premium cable. “Outside. Now.”
“Oh, so you can make decisions,” you snapped. “Interesting. Too bad you didn’t use that skill before opening your fat-ass mouth to Shota and Leehan.”
Riki’s jaw flexed. A muscle jumped. “Bro, you’re gonna get yourself jumped, and then I’m gonna have to deal with that and your yelling. Please. Outside.”
You scoffed, loud. “Cute of you to assume I wouldn’t beat their asses and yours.”
That earned you a few offended scoffs from the crowd.
Riki dragged a hand over his face, muttering something in Japanese you were ninety-eight percent sure meant “please, God, not right now.”
With a tight breath, he stepped closer—close enough that his voice dropped and you felt it more than heard it. “You’re in my brother’s house, surrounded by his people. You can’t just bark at everyone and hope it ends well.”
You glared up at him, heat radiating off your skin like you were a human wildfire. “Funny. Because you didn’t seem to care about the consequences when you told the guys we hooked up.”
His eyes widened—there it was. Guilt. Flashing across his face like lightning. “Out. Side.” He grit out. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
You stared him down, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like you were about to lunge first and think later. But the way he said it—low, edged, almost shaking—
Yeah. You knew that tone too.
So you spun on your heel and shoved past him, letting the front door slam behind you as you stepped into the warm air.
Riki followed seconds later, shutting the door softly this time. The music dulled to a muffled thump, the smoke-heavy air swapping out for something crisp, clearer…but still thick between you two.
He stayed a few steps away, hands planted on his hips as he stared at the concrete like it offended him. His voice was low, steadying. “What the fuck is wrong with your crazy ass?!”
“I’m not crazy! I’m angry! How could sit up with our friends and just—”
“What?! Do what?”
You shoved him hard but he barely stumbled. “Fucking dick! Forget that I ever knew you. I never wanna see or hear from you again! Just…” You hold up your hand in repugnance. “Ugh!” Turning to cross the street to go directly to your house, Riki catches your arm before you can make another step. “Stop, bitch—what part of ‘I fucking hate you’ do you not get?”
“Just let me explain! Look, before you at least try to walk out of my damn life—let me tell you—”
You nudged him. “Fuck off,” walking straight ahead and across the street to your house. Disappearing from the scene without another word. Riki groaned in annoyance, massaging his temples as he stood there. Torn between following you or respecting your desire for space.
But after a moment, he lifts the bottom of his black tank top, sighing into it before he’s approached by Shota and Leehan—both boys coming out of the bushes.
Shota emerged first, twigs in his hair, looking like he’d just barely survived a nature documentary. “…She’s alive, right?” he asked, glancing between the street you stormed across and Riki’s murder-face.
Leehan stepped out after him, brushing leaves off his shirt. “We weren’t hiding—we were…tactically monitoring.”
Riki shot them both a look. “You were crouched behind a bush.”
Shota whispered, “Tactical,” under his breath.
Leehan ignored him, eyes locked on Riki. “So? Did you fix it?”
Riki barked a humorless laugh. “Does it look fixed?”
Both boys assessed him. Shota: “…You look like you got hit by a car.” Leehan: “Twice.”
Riki dragged a hand over his face again, jaw tight, chest still rising a little too fast. “She won’t even let me talk. I tried to explain, and she—” he gestured vaguely toward your house—“walked off like I’m nothing to her.”
“That’s because you messed up,” Leehan said bluntly. “Like really messed up. Like…badly.”
Shota hummed. “Honestly, I thought she was gonna deck you. And I was kinda ready to join in.”
Riki kicked a pebble, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Please, I’ve been kicking your ass since the sandbox.”
Shota bristled instantly. “Bro, that was ONE time—”
“It was every time,” Riki shot back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You used to fall over if someone breathed too hard.”
Leehan waved a hand. “Yo, can we circle back to the part where you detonated your entire friendship in under thirty seconds?”
Riki’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The high was gone. The adrenaline was gone. All that was left was that tight ache in his chest, like someone was pulling each rib inward. “I didn’t mean for her to find out like that,” he muttered.
Leehan deadpanned, “you told us.”
“Yeah, because you’re my boys,” Riki snapped, pacing a short line on the sidewalk. “I didn’t think it’d turn into some weird telephone game while she was gone!”
“But you lied on your dick though. What type of cornball does that?” Shota shrugged obviously.
“I didn’t—” He inhaled, his fists curling up as he punched his palm—leaving it stinging.
Leehan sighed. “So you’re saying y’all fucked. She clearly holds the sentiment that you didn’t so…who’s lying?” He opened his hands, prepared to receive any type of clarity on the situation.
“It’s not even about who’s lying, how do I make her not angry enough to not want to punch me in the face?” He gestured to your house. “Bro, her temper is insane! She’s like a fucking chihuahua—”
Shota clapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes going wide. “Ooh, I’m telling on you.”
Leehan nodded gravely. “Yeah, we’re really gonna jump your ass then.”
Riki groaned, dragging both hands over his face. “I didn’t mean—I’m just saying she bites first and thinks later! She’s like—like—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Shota warned. “For your own safety.”
Riki let his hands drop, exasperated. “I’m being serious. She’s not gonna listen to me. She won’t even stand still long enough for me to get a sentence out. I—” He huffed. “I panicked, okay? I shouldn’t have said we—”
“Hooked up?” Leehan offered.
Riki shot him a dirty look. “Shut up. I know it was stupid.”
Shota crossed his arms. “Bro, she finished the year. She spends an extra few weeks on an isolated writing retreat. Missing time with us for whatever reason. She came home ready to hug you. And instead she got you with a blunt, a house full of gang extras, and a rumor that you two were bumping uglies behind her back. Of course she’s mad.”
Riki winced. “…Yeah.”
Leehan’s voice firm. “So start with the truth.”
Riki blinked at him like that was the most unreasonable suggestion ever. “What truth?”
“The real one,” Leehan said. “You said something happened. She said nothing happened. So which one is it? What are we actually dealing with here?”
Riki’s eyes flicked toward your house again—like the answer was written behind your window.
Shota said absentmindedly, lips pursed as he looked down at the dirt beneath his shoes. “She didn’t say nothing happened.”
“What?” Leehan furrowed his brows.
“She just got mad. She never said what did or didn’t happen.”
Riki walked backwards to his house, arms spread in vindication. “Hm. And you fuckers didn’t believe me.”
Leehan rolled his eyes so hard it was audible. “Relax, Socrates. All she confirmed is that she hates your guts.”
Shota pointed at Riki with a half-shrug. “Yeah, bro, don’t act like this is some big ‘gotcha.’ She didn’t say you were lying…but she also looked ready to kick your shit in.”
Riki dropped his arms, irritation sliding back in. “Still. None of you believed me.”
“Because your track record is dogshit,” Leehan said. “You lie about stupid shit all the time. One time you said you could backflip off Shota’s porch and you landed on his mom’s hibiscus.”
“Hey, that flowerbed recovered,” Riki muttered.
“No, it didn’t,” Shota said. “She still brings it up at family dinners.”
Riki threw his head back with a groan. “Bro, can we stay on topic?”
Leehan crossed his arms. “Cool. That means we’re back to the original question: what actually went down?”
Riki’s jaw ticked. He turned slightly, like the angle would help him dodge the question.
Shota wasn’t letting him. “Bro. We’ve known you since you had Lego hair. Just spit it out.”
A long beat.
Riki’s tongue pressed against his cheek, eyes dropping to the sidewalk. “I’ll catch y’all later.” He turned around fully to walk back up his steps.
“Wh—hey!” Shota calls out.
Shota jogged after him, grabbing the back of his tank like a mom snagging a toddler about to run into traffic. “You are not gonna hit us with the dramatic exit when you’re the one who started this whole novella.”
Riki yanked his shirt free with a scoff. “I didn’t start anything—”
“You literally did,” Leehan yelled from the sidewalk. “You started it with your mouth. And continued it with your mouth. And escalated it with your…actually? Still your mouth.”
Riki spun around, eyes wide, offended. “Can the both of you get off my jock? Damn!”
Shota pointed at him, calm and judgmental like an annoyed substitute teacher. “No. Because you’re being a loser. And I say that with love.”
Riki lifted both hands to his face, dragging them down like he could physically wipe the embarrassment off. “Y’all are the worst friends alive.”
“And yet,” Leehan said, stepping closer, “we’re the only ones who can save your dumbass from getting rocked by your girl.”
“She’s not my girl!” Riki snapped instantly, which absolutely no one believed.
Both boys blinked at him like he’d just said the sky was green.
Shota said. “And I’m Scooby Doo.”
Leehan pointed at the door behind Riki. “Stop stalling. We asked what happened. You clearly don’t want to say it. Why?”
Riki’s throat bobbed.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Shifted his weight.
Looked everywhere except at them.
Then booked it right into the house. Locking the door behind him with a click.
Shota and Leehan just stared at the locked door like it had personally offended them.
A beat.
Then another.
“…Did he just—?” Shota blinked.
“Yeah,” Leehan said flatly. “He ran.”
—
The rest of the night was a weird one. It felt like your college nights. Locked away in your space, biding the time until you were finally set free from the deadlines and expectations and able to leave. To be with your family but your friends most importantly.
All three of those boys meant something differently to you; and it almost made you worry about how your life would’ve transpired if you hadn’t been put next to them for talking too much.
Leehan was the diplomat. The water to everyone’s fire as the eldest one of the quartet. The one that spoke when you four were sent to the principal’s office for setting off a stinkbomb in Mrs. Jenson’s art class.
Shota was always in his own world. But he meant it for all of you. He was nearly impossible to hate to the point where if you were too mean to him, you’d start crying. Not only was he unreasonably peculiar at all times, he was the friend that you’d call in the middle of the night just to talk and he’d answer like he wasn’t mid rapid eye movement.
Riki was always very tricky. The rhyme was not intended, I promise. He was the wild card. The spark. The kid who lived like he had a personal vendetta against boredom. He’d drag you into trouble with a grin, swear you were overreacting, and then somehow sweet-talk the consequences down to a warning. He could charm adults, piss off authority, and get the three of you laughing in the same breath.
But he was also the one who always noticed.
When you were too quiet. When your knee bounced under the desk. When you smiled but didn’t mean it.
He’d nudge your foot with his sneaker. Or toss you a note. Or mouth a stupid joke until you cracked.
Riki was complicated. Not in the dramatic way—more in the “why does your chest feel weird when he looks at you too long” way.
Tonight he had you feeling everything except calm. You lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling like it contained answers or at least a refund policy for emotional tax. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that made your thoughts echo.
Shota, Leehan, Riki. Your boys. Your constants. Your headaches.
You exhaled slowly, sinking deeper into your mattress. You’d kill them before you ever lost them. Probably.
Just then, you nearly jumped out of your skin as you heard a sharp knock on your window. Turning your head to the right, you almost fell off your bed as Riki stood there—tall and looming over your window in a black hoodie.
He lifted a hand and knocked again—lighter this time, like that made it any less insane.
You hissed under your breath, scrambling off the bed and practically tripping over your blanket as you marched to the window. Sliding it up, you whispered harshly, “Are you out of your mind?!”
Riki blinked at you, equal parts guilty and stubborn. “You weren’t answering your phone.”
“So your next idea was breaking into my house?”
“It’s not breaking in if the window’s unlocked,” he shrugged, already hooking his fingers over the sill like he was about to climb in whether you liked it or not.
You smacked his hand. “Try it and I’m calling the cops.”
“You won’t.”
“I absolutely will.”
“You won’t,” he repeated, annoyingly sure.
He leaned closer, breath puffing in the cool night air. “Can you just—” His jaw clenched. “Let me talk to you.”
You crossed your arms. “Talk from out there.”
Riki shot you a look like you were being intentionally difficult. (You were.) “It’s cold.”
“It’s a Californian summer night, it’s sweater weather at best.” You shrug haphazardly.
“I’m anemic.”
“No. I’m anemic.”
“Same difference.”
“Go.” You lightly pushed him back and out of the windowsill. “Don’t you have gang members to go rob a bank with, hard-ass?”
Riki’s face twisted like you’d just accused him of running a puppy-smuggling ring. “Rob a—what?!” he whisper-yelled, gripping the window frame before you could shut it. “You think I’d rob a bank with them? Half those dudes can’t even do basic math!”
“Sounds like a personal problem,” you said, trying to pry his fingers off the sill.
He held on tighter.
You glared. He glared back, a standoff worthy of a Western, except you were in pajamas and he looked like a raccoon rifling through trash.
“Why are you still here?” you hissed.
“Because,” he snapped back in a whisper, “my name is getting dragged through the mud, my best friend hates me, my other two best friends think I’m an idiot—”
“They’re right.”
“—and you still won’t let me explain!”
You gripped the window and started lowering it—slowly, deliberately—like a villain pressing a big red button.
Riki’s eyes went huge. “Don’t you—don’t you dare close this window on me.”
You kept lowering it.
“Bro—” Down another inch.
“Are you serious right now—” Another inch.
He shoved his hand under the frame, blocking it like some tragic action hero trying to stop a garage door from crushing him. “I’m not finished!”
“You said plenty,” you replied, voice flat as drywall. “So we’re even.”
“I didn’t get to say anything!” he whisper-yelled, face squished awkwardly under the descending window. “Okay—I said a little. But not in the way you think—ow, that’s my knuckle—can you just—STOP—”
You paused just long enough for him to yank his hand out before he lost a finger.
He immediately slapped both palms on the windowsill, breathless, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “What is wrong with you?!”
“You came to my window at—” you checked the analog clock on the wall, “—one forty-six in the morning looking like you crawled out of a crime documentary and I’m the problem?”
He pointed at you, indignant. “Yes!”
You pushed the window down another inch. Closing it.
He groaned, “oh come on you can’t—” He watched you lower the blinds, your narrowed eyes the last thing he saw before you closed the curtains. “Please?” Riki sighed, leaning against the window as he called out. “Come on, open up for me? Please—”
The TV you had on only increased in volume.
Riki’s head thunked against the glass like he was trying to transfer his brain cells through osmosis. “Are you—are you SERIOUS right now? You’re gonna drown me out with The OC?!”
You didn’t answer.
Cue the theme music swelling louder.
“Boo.” Knock, knock, knock. “Bunnyboo, I know you hear me.”
Silence.
Another knock, faster. “Bro, don’t do me like this. At least yell at me through the glass. Throw something. Flip me off. Give me anything!”
You turned the TV up another two notches.
He pressed his forehead to the window again, palms flat, voice dropping low—half pleading, half warning. “Don’t make me climb in here. I swear to God, I will break in like a raccoon with a vendetta—”
A pillow smacked the glass from inside—the clanging of the blinds as it hit the hard surface.
He flinched. “…Okay. Message received.”
But he didn’t leave.
He stayed right there—pacing once, twice—before finally planting himself on the little strip of concrete beneath your window, sitting down like he paid rent there. Legs stretched out, hoodie bunched at his elbows, head tipped back against your siding. “Come on…” He whispered to himself.
He rubbed both hands over his face, dragging down like he could physically peel the stress off. “I’m gonna die out here,” he muttered. “She’s actually gonna let me freeze to death on suburban concrete. Damn.”
You muted the TV for two seconds—just long enough for him to perk up—before turning it right back on. He deflated so hard you could practically hear it.
“Wow,” he said to the night sky. “She’s evil. She’s actually evil. And she wonders why I lie awake at night thinking about—”
You whacked the window again with another pillow.
He jumped. “HEY—okay, okay! I take it back! You’re not evil, you’re just—” He paused, searching for something nice. “—temperamental.”
Another pillow hit the glass.
He held both hands up like he was being detained. “How many pillows do you have?!”
For a moment, he just sat there, breathing out shaky frustration, knees bent, arms draped loosely over them. The porch light cast him in soft gold, and for once he didn’t look like the loudmouthed, idiotic menace who’d started this whole mess.
He looked like someone who’d been losing his mind over you all night. And then—quietly, almost too quiet: “…Boo. Please let me fix this.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tapping anxiously.
“I didn’t tell them what you think I did,” he said, softer. “I swear. I didn’t make you look stupid. I didn’t—” His voice caught. “I didn’t disrespect you. Not the way you’re imagining.”
You froze behind the blinds.
He exhaled like the words tasted bitter. “I didn’t even tell them everything. Not the stuff that…mattered.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the roots.
“You think I’m out here playing around,” he said. “But I’m not. And I don’t know how to prove that when you won’t open the damn window.”
You didn’t move. He didn’t expect you to.
He tilted his head back against the siding again, eyes closing, breath leaving him in a quiet, frustrated laugh. “Fine,” he murmured. “I’ll sit out here all night if I have to.”
A pause.
“Knowing my dumbass? I probably will.”
Then, he heard movement from inside the house. Leaning into the siding did he lean up as his heart rate jumped. He stood up, brushing his sweats off as he walked around the front of the house. Only for him to be met with your mom—robe, bonnet, and sleepy-face in tow.
Riki froze mid-step, eyes widening like he’d just walked into a horror scene. “Uh…hi?” His voice cracked somewhere between sheepish and terrified.
Your mom blinked at him, hands on her hips, taking in the hoodie, the sweatpants, the midnight energy radiating off him like a storm cloud. “Riki Nishimura,” she said slowly, voice low but deadly calm. “What exactly are you doing on my lawn at—” she glanced at her phone—“almost two in the morning?”
“I—uh—” He raised his hands like a surrendering cartoon character. “I had to go to the store for Reo. I forgot my keys and now I’m locked out…” This wouldn’t be the first time he’s lied to your mom, it was just about whether she’d believe him. “I called him a few times and he’s not answering so…”
“So…you couldn’t go to either of the other boy’s houses? You had to come to my daughter’s?”
Riki’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He looked like a fish trying to talk its way out of being dinner. “Well—okay—hear me out,” he blurted, already panicking. “I would sleep at Shota’s but he snores insanely loud and the last time I did, he almost suffocated from the pillow I put over his face. And Leehan is entirely too particular about how I sleep like he wants the bed split right in—”
Your mom gave him a look so dry it could’ve dehydrated a cactus. “Inside. Now. Before I start asking real questions.”
Riki nodded so fast his hood nearly flew off. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”
But as he followed her toward the door, he couldn’t stop the tiny, hopeful glance he threw toward your window—praying you hadn’t heard any of that, even though he knew deep down…you definitely had.
He kicked his shoes off as he entered, “I promise I’ll be out—” he whispered.
“Shut up, you’re not a guest here. I love you, goodnight.” She yawned as she walked the opposite way to her room.
“Love you too, sleep well.” He whispered back.
Riki stood in the hallway like someone who’d just been adopted and arrested in the same breath. He watched your mom disappear down the hall, the soft shuffle of her slippers fading.
He took two small steps forward. Then froze when the floorboard under him squeaked loud enough to wake the dead. He saw your shadow moving around in your room from the small sliver of light that poked through the gap of the frame and door itself. His gut told him to speed up down the hall. To which he did—swiftly—before you could close the door on him.
But he beat you there, wedging himself in. “Gotcha.” He beamed, shimmying through as he closed it softly behind him.
“Are you crazy?” You whisper-yelled. “Coming into my house like this? Lying to my mom?!”
“I’m just as crazy as you are.” He unzipped his hoodie, tossing it onto the rack on your closet door. “Don’t act like you haven’t lied to Reo however many times—”
“That’s different. If we’re gonna be out late or something but—”
“Look, I don’t care about any of that. I came to fix things with you.” He stepped forward, ensuring you looked up at him. “Just hear me out…two minutes.” You studied him—hair messy from the wind, shirt rumpled, socks mismatched, eyes big and tired and a little frantic. You hated how familiar he looked in your room. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d slipped in after midnight.
“You get one.” You nod once. “And take off those dirty ass pants.” You sighed as you turned to your drawers. Scouring until you landed on a clean pair of black sweats.
With some rustling behind you, Riki stripped out of his pants. Revealing his black Calvin Klein boxers that you loved so much. That he knew you went crazy for.
“…Did you seriously just—?”
“What?” he said, way too innocent for someone in nothing but briefs in your bedroom at two in the morning. “You told me to take ‘em off.”
“I meant go change in the bathroom, you psychopath.”
He blinked. “Why would I walk all the way to the bathroom when your room is right here?”
You stared at him.
He stared back like this was the most logical sentence any human had ever spoken.
“Riki,” you said slowly, pointing the sweats at him like a weapon. “Put these on before I throw holy water at you.”
He snatched the pair from your hand with a tiny smirk—one he tried (and failed) to hide by looking down. “You always give me the soft ones,” he murmured, pulling them on.
“Well they’re yours…” you sigh, plopping right onto the edge of your bed.
He froze mid–pull, waistband halfway up his hips. “…What?”
You blinked at him. “What, what?”
He let the rest of the sweats snap into place, slow, like his brain was rebooting. “Did you just say they’re mine?”
You groaned, falling back on your palms. “Yes, Riki, congratulations, you own a pair of cotton-poly blend sweatpants. Don’t let it go to your head. So what? You’ve been here like a trillion times.”
But of course it did. You watched the shift happen in real time—his shoulders relaxing, his mouth tugging into that stupid boyish half‑smile he only ever got when he felt special.
He toed his discarded pants into a pile and padded over to you, the soft thud of his mismatched socks making him look criminally at-home in your space. “They’re mine,” he repeated, quieter this time. Like he’d just been handed a family heirloom instead of laundry.
You rolled your eyes. “Riki, don’t get sentimental, it’s literally the third time you’ve forgotten to take them back.”
He dropped down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “Still counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does,” he said, leaning back on his hands so his arm pressed along yours. “‘Cause that means when I come over…you expect me to stay.”
Your breath stuttered—just barely, but enough.
His voice softened. “And I know you’re pissed. And I know you’re pretending you’re not glad I’m here.” A beat. “But you said they’re mine.”
He nudged your knee with his. “Let me explain, Boo. Please.”
Your knee bounced, nerves bubbling up in the pit of your stomach as you looked down at your hands in your lap. “You promised, Riki. That you wouldn’t tell anyone what happened that night.”
Riki’s breath caught—not loud, not dramatic, just this tiny break in his chest like your words had clipped something vital. He didn’t move at first. Just stared at you, jaw set, eyes searching your profile like the truth might be written somewhere on your cheek. “I…I didn’t tell them in a malicious way.”
You turned your head as your anger bubbled up in your stomach. But he knew how to placate you. “No, no, no…listen. Look at me.” He gently grabbed your shoulders to turn you to face him. “Damn, you’re like a pitbull.”
You slapped his hands off your shoulders instantly. “Don’t call me a pitbull.”
“You are a pitbull,” he shot back, whisper‑yelling. “Small. Angry. Bites without warning.”
“I’m literally taller than you,” you snapped.
“You are not taller than—okay, you know what, that’s not the point.” He dragged a hand down his face, regrouping, then looked at you with that maddening mix of exasperation and adoration that made you want to smack him and kiss him in the same breath. “Listen to what I’m saying.”
You crossed your arms so hard your shoulders creaked.
He leaned forward, matching your intensity with his own. “I was just doing it for your protection.” He watched your face blend into confusion. “Not from the guys, from the guys my brother deals with.”
“Um…?”
“While you were gone, some of them were saying that they were gonna get at you when you came back. Obviously by that point, me and you already…” He trailed off. “And it was under wraps. But the way they were talking,” he shook his head, his tongue poking his cheek as he recalled the repulsive language. “I had to ‘claim’ you. Let them know you were mine.”
“I’m not an object, Riki.”
“I know, Boo. I know. I didn’t wanna put you in that position but I had to for the sake of those guys leaving you alone when you got back.”
Your brows pulled together, the heat in your chest shifting—still anger, but now tangled with something colder, sharper. “That’s not protection,” you said quietly.
Riki winced like you’d flicked him right in the soul. “I know. I know that. And if there was any other way—literally any—I would’ve taken it.”
You stared at him, trying to read past the excuses, past the dramatics, past the Riki-isms he wrapped himself in like bubble wrap. But his eyes weren’t dodging. Nor were they defensive. Just tired. And tense. And…a little fearful.
Your voice softened a notch. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
He huffed out a laugh—dry, humorless, one shoulder lifting. “Because you’d say exactly what you’re saying now. That I don’t get to ‘claim’ you. That you’re not a trophy. That you don’t need saving.” He added, “plus by that time you were at your retreat, didn’t have your phone. Was I supposed to send a smoke signal? Letter in a bottle?”
“It would’ve been appreciated.” You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I can’t stand you sometimes.”
Riki groaned, “dude, you’re so immature.”
“Me?!” You gasped, “I’m immature yet you fold under zero pressure and stutter when you lie?”
“Don’t do that. We’re grown now, I shouldn’t even be lying to anybody.”
“Right. So telling your groupies about our night of passion was sooo grown?”
He smiled, boyishly. “So you thought there was passion?” Slowing reaching his hand over to your waist before you smacked it away.
“No! I’m just saying that you’re a dick and never consider me for anything. Not me, Leehan, or Shota.”
Riki looked at you like you had three heads. “Are you—what are you talking about?”
You scoffed, “how did they even find out? Leehan told me that only he and Shota knew. Now you’re saying that—”
“I told them after the fact so they wouldn’t have to hear it from anybody else!” He stood up, “gosh, how low do you think I am? Like, do you really think I’m just some loser?”
Your head snapped up at his tone. He wasn’t yelling, but the hurt in his voice sliced sharp enough.
“Riki, that’s not—”
“No, because you’re talking like I’m out here giving press conferences about our business.” He pointed at himself, brows furrowed, genuinely offended. “You think I’d embarrass you like that? You think I’d embarrass myself like that?”
You opened your mouth, shut it, then crossed your arms tighter. “I think you do dumb things without thinking.”
His laugh was one sharp exhale. “Yeah? So do you.”
“That is not the point—”
“It is,” he cut in, stepping closer, eyes locked on yours with that frustrating intensity that made your stomach flip. “Because you’re acting like I’m some clown who doesn’t care about you. Like I’d run around bragging about us to look cool. That’s not me. That’s never been me.”
You faltered. Just a hiccup. Barely noticeable—except he noticed everything. “So telling people about us having sex on a summer night—”
“God, what do you not get?!” He put his hands out in frustration, “I didn’t tell anyone for fun! Or to lie on my dick—not that it was even a lie. I did it because otherwise, you’d have some weird ass guys pushing up on you and I can’t have that. For my sanity or your safety.”
You sighed dramatically, crossing your arms as you looked away from him. Turning your head away like you were a child.
“Look at me.” Riki said firmly but to no avail.
“Hm.” You shrugged as you crossed your legs. Your bare legs rubbing together over your checkered pajama shorts.
He shook his head. “Dude, you need to grow the fuck up and stop acting like a petulant child.”
You snapped your head back toward him so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. “Petulant?” you echoed, voice shooting up an octave. “Oh, wow. Big word. Did you eat a dictionary for breakfast or—”
“See?” he barked, throwing his hands up. “That! That right there!”
“What right there?!”
“You act like you don’t care but then you get mad like you care the most.” He pointed at you like you were a math problem he’d been failing for years. “You can’t even look at me without doing the dramatic little eye-roll-head-turn combo—”
“I do not—”
“You do,” he cut in, stepping forward, voice firm, eyes sharp. “You’re doing it right now.”
Your jaw dropped. “I am not—”
“You are,” he repeated, exasperated beyond mortal comprehension. “And it’s fine—like, it’s actually kinda cute when you’re not actively trying to ruin my life—but right now? Right now I need you to stop pretending you’re five years old and actually hear me.”
You scoffed so loud the walls probably shook. “Five years old? Riki, I swear to God—”
“No, seriously.” He crouched down a bit so he was more level with you, eyes narrowing just enough to make your pulse jump. “Grow. Up.”
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened.
You were halfway to telling him off when he added, annoyingly soft:
“I’m trying to talk to you. Not fight. Not yell. Talk. But you’re making it impossible.”
You blinked at him, chest tight, fury and embarrassment and something dangerously close to vulnerability twisting together.
His voice dropped low. “Stop looking away from me. I hate when you do that.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He leaned in, jaw tight. “And it makes me feel like you don’t care.”
That sentence froze you mid-breath. “…What?” you whispered.
Your heartbeat kicked up so loudly you were sure he could hear it. You sat there, arms crossed, shoulders tense, but eyes finally—finally—on him.
Riki looked back at you with an honesty that stripped every smart remark right off your tongue.
“Stop acting like I’m some villain,” he murmured. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.” He reached up, brushing a curl that fell out of your ponytail—behind your ear. “And with that funky ass temper, I can’t get a word in.”
You stare at him for a moment, tilting your chin to the side his hand was on as your eyes flit to the side. Like you were almost embarrassed to enjoy physical touch from him. “Riki.”
“Yes?”
“How long have you known me for? Do you remember?”
His hand froze halfway down your cheek like you’d just hit him with a pop quiz he absolutely did not study for.
“…Huh?” he blinked.
You sighed, leveling him with a stare that could’ve melted steel. “How long have you known me? Since when?”
Riki straightened, shoulders pulling back as if bracing for impact. “Since we were seven.”
“And in all those years,” you continued, voice low, “has there ever been a moment where my mouth hasn’t gotten me or one of us into some type of trouble?”
He pursed his lips in thought, his eyes seeming to search through the crevices of his brain. “Um…no not really.” Riki looked back from ages seven to twenty—trying to assess when your sharp tongue and impulsive actions hadn’t done them well.
“See?” You smiled in jest. “And you guys just accept me for me. This is who I am. And the fact that you hate it now all of a sudden—”
Riki rolls his eyes, frustration flaring in his chest. “No one’s saying we don’t accept you,” he retorts, his tone firm. “But just because we’ve put up with your bullshit for years doesn’t mean you can’t be held accountable for your words and actions. This isn’t some free pass to act like a brat whenever you want.”
“Yes it is!” You laugh, “because I accept you for all your shit. You’re like a diet version of me.”
Riki’s whole face twisted, “please. You’re the most mini-me of anyone I know.”
“Are you trying to son me?”
Riki laughed, leaning into you as he laid his head on your shoulder. “You are my son, you wanna be like me soooo bad.”
You shoved his forehead lightly. “Shut up.”
He blinked at you, affronted. “Don’t hit your daddy.”
You smacked him again.
“HEY—”
“Keep talking like that,” you warned, “and I’m putting you in the home early.”
He leaned back, pointing at you like you were the crazy one. “You can’t put me in the home. You’re my dependent.”
“Riki, I am older than you.”
“That’s what makes this so embarrassing for you,” he said, absolutely delighted with himself. “Imagine being older and still being my mini-me.”
Your eye twitched so violently he had to bite back a laugh.
Then he softened, just a little—head tilting, voice dropping. “Come on, Boo. I’m messing with you.” His shoulder nudged yours. “You know I don’t think of you like that.” Leaning his head back on your shoulder as he reached down for your hand. “I’m sorry, again.”
You tried—tried—to keep your spine stiff, arms crossed, jaw tight. But the second his fingers brushed yours, your whole posture betrayed you. Your hand didn’t curl around his, but it didn’t pull away either. It just…sat there. Suspiciously compliant.
You exhaled, staring at the wall like it might give you divine guidance.
“I know.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I messed up. I scared you. I made you feel played. I talked too much, I didn’t talk enough—I know.” He lifted his head just enough to look at you. “But I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear to God, Boo, every dumb thing I did was me trying to keep you safe.”
Your throat tightened despite every effort to swallow the feeling down.
“And I know you don’t like being protected,” he added, voice threading into something shy. “But you matter to me. In a way that makes it hard to think straight sometimes.”
Ever since you could remember meeting him, Riki had been your protector. And the worst part? He’d never even asked for the job.
He just…took it.
The kid who yanked you out of trouble before you even recognized it. The teenager who stood in front of you during every argument you started. The grown man now sitting in your bedroom at two in the damn morning, wearing your/his pants and looking at you like you were the whole reason he learned how to fight in the first place.
His knuckles grazed your jaw as he leaned in, nudging your cheek with his nose the way he always did when he was trying to make you smile. It worked—of course it did—your laugh spilling out small and helpless. “Your hero, your knight…” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. The smile that followed wasn’t cocky or teasing, but something almost…bashful. Like he couldn’t believe he’d earned the right to say it out loud. “Remember?”
But the word hero didn’t even begin to cover it.
He’d been a shadow and a shield, a tether and a torch—always one step ahead of whatever chaos you were about to fling yourself into. He carried your messes like they weighed nothing, shouldered your storms like they were summer rain. Half the time you wondered if he’d been assigned to you at birth, like some overworked guardian angel who accidentally got attached.
And you did remember. Every version of him. Every moment he’d stepped between you and the world like it was instinct. Like saving you was simply something he knew how to do—before he even knew how to save himself.
“Mhm,” you nodded—barely, quietly, like admitting it too loudly might crack something wide open between you.
His eyes softened even more at that tiny sound, as if your agreement carried an entire lifetime of shared secrets. His fingers slipped from your jaw to the side of your neck, feather-light, tracing the spot he always touched when he was trying to ground you…or ground himself. You could feel the tremor hiding in his thumb. He was steady for everyone else—impenetrable, unshakable—but with you? His armor always rattled just a little.
“Good,” he whispered, almost like he needed reassurance. Like he was afraid you might’ve forgotten who he’d always tried to be for you.
You hadn’t. God, you hadn’t.
If anything, the memories rose up all at once—him grabbing your sleeve before you stepped into the street at eight years old, him taking the blame for something you’d said at twelve, him pulling you behind him during the campfire argument at fifteen, eyes dark and jaw set like he’d burn the whole forest down before he let someone talk to you sideways. Him now, sitting inches from you, still trying to guard you from something invisible in the room.
He leaned in a little closer, forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice lowering like the hour demanded honesty. “I always wanted to be that for you,” he said. “Even when you didn’t need me to be.”
Your chest tightened—not painfully, but in that terrifyingly sweet way that told you he meant every word. “It’s not like I need you anyway…” You smile shyly as you nudge him with your elbow.
“No?” He laughed, “you don’t need me, Boo?” He beamed, wrapping his arms around your waist—pulling your side into him.
You shook your head, “nope—oof! Dude—”
Burying his face into your neck as he blew raspberries into it, he pulled you back flat onto the bed as you both laughed. You hit the mattress with a soft thud, breath catching in your throat before dissolving into helpless laughter. “Riki—stop—!” you wheezed, kicking a leg uselessly as he doubled down, arms locked around you like he’d been waiting all night for an excuse to tackle you.
He blew another loud, obnoxious raspberry against your neck, the kind that made your whole body jolt. “Don’t need me, huh?” he taunted, his words muffled against your skin as he climbed on top of you. “Say it again. Go ahead. I dare you.”
You tried to twist away, but his grip only tightened, warm and solid and stupidly comforting. “I don’t—!” you squeaked, halfway grinning, halfway choking on your own breath. “I don’t need—Riki, seriously—!”
“Liar,” he declared, without even giving you a chance to finish, pressing his forehead into the curve of your shoulder like you were some sort of pillow he owned. “Biggest liar I’ve ever met.”
You fought him for another second—maybe two—before your muscles gave out in that familiar way they always did around him. The laughter faded into a soft, breathless quiet, the room still humming with the echo of it. His weight settled over you, heavy and warm, like he’d decided this was his new home address.
He exhaled against your neck, softer this time—pressing a gentle kiss there before he raised his head. Nose to nose with you as you both smiled when your eyes met, his voice dropping back to something unbearably gentle. “How was school? You haven’t found my replacement yet, huh?”
“Nuh-uh…no one could ever replace you.”
His lips quirked—not into that smug little smirk he wore when he was winning, but something smaller, almost startled. Like he hadn’t expected you to hand him an answer that soft, that honest, without putting up some kind of fight first.
His fingers brushed your waist, thumb tracing slow, unconscious circles like he was memorizing the shape of you. “Yeah?” he murmured, the word barely more than a breath. “You saying I’m…irreplaceable?”
You rolled your eyes, but it came out ruined—too fond, too warm. “That’s literally what ‘no one could ever replace you’ means.”
His thumb paused mid-circle on your waist, the warmth of his touch lingering like a question he was scared to ask out loud.
“Yeah, but…” he said slowly, eyes flicking over your face as if trying to read something between your lashes. “You say stuff like that and then pretend we’re just—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Nothing.”
Your breath caught. Not because he was wrong, but because he was painfully, dangerously right. “We are nothing,” you said a little too quickly, a little too defensively. “Like—we have to be. You know how it’d look if anyone found out.”
Riki stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was green. “How it’d look to who? Our friends?”
“Yes!” You sat up slightly, annoyed that he wasn’t getting it. “If they think I’m sneaking around with you, it’s gonna make everything weird. I don’t want Leehan or Shota or anybody else thinking there’s…a thing. I don’t want a rift.”
“A rift,” he repeated, deadpan. “You think you and me laughing at two in the morning in your bed is gonna break up the Fantastic Four?”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.” He tugged you a tiny bit closer by your hip, eyes locked on yours. “Boo, we’ve gotten through worse. They’re not gonna fall apart because we—” He hesitated, jaw working. “—because we care about each other differently now.”
You swallowed hard, your voice smaller now. “I just don’t want them picking sides.”
His expression softened like melting wax. He leaned his forehead to yours again, gentler this time. “No one’s picking sides. Not unless you start picking fights again, and even then I’m still betting on you.”
You snorted, the tension easing just an inch.
He took the opportunity, slipping a hand up your back, grounding you with his warmth. “Look,” he murmured, “I get not wanting to make waves. I do. But don’t pretend this is nothing just to keep the peace.”
Your heartbeat thudded once, sharp and loud.
“Because it’s not nothing,” he whispered. “Not to me.”
“I know, Riki…Just—please?” You bring your hand up to his cheek, brushing his chiseled jaw. Though he shook his head slowly with soft eyes, you whispered—lips brushing against his as you mumbled. “Please, for me? Please…?”
His breath hitched the second your lips grazed his—soft enough to deny, close enough to ruin him. His eyes fluttered half-shut, like he couldn’t decide whether to lean in or back away before he did something stupid. “Baby…” His voice was barely sound now, more exhale than words. You felt it against your mouth, warm and shaky. “You know I’d do anything you asked.”
You nudged closer—not kissing him, not quite, just letting the shape of him press into the shape of you. Your palm was warm on his jaw, your thumb sweeping the curve of his cheekbone. His breath stuttered again. “But you’re asking me to pretend,” he murmured, eyes opening fully. “To pretend I don’t…feel this. With you. About you.”
Your fingers flexed at his skin, and he shivered.
“I’m not asking you to pretend,” you whispered back. “I’m just asking you to help me protect what we already have. Before anyone else gets involved. Before it turns into drama or sides or expectations. I just…want us. Quietly. Carefully.”
His jaw clenched under your hand—less anger, more restraint. The kind he only ever showed with you.
“And if I say yes,” he asked, voice low, “does that mean I only get you in moments like this? When the door’s closed and everyone’s asleep?”
Your throat bobbed.
“If that’s what it takes to make sure that we don’t ruin our group.” you whispered.
For a beat, he didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you, his forehead pressing to yours like he was steadying himself on the only thing that hadn’t ever failed him.
Then he exhaled, long and quiet, his hand sliding from your back to cradle the side of your neck. “Fine,” he murmured. “For you.” His nose brushed yours, gentle, aching. “But don’t ask me to act like you don’t mean something to me. Even if no one else gets to know yet.”
His thumb traced your throat, slow, deliberate. “I can’t fake that. Not even for you.”
—
The next morning
—
“Cousin?!” Leehan called out to his mom as she moved through the kitchen. “What cousin?!”
Mrs. Kim sighed as she chopped up vegetables, using the knife as a pointer to gesture to the basket of laundry on the counter that she needed her son to fold. “My friend from high school, Alexa, is sending her daughter to go to school here.”
With a roll of the eye, “school or university? Neither start for another month and a half.” He goes to fold some of the shirts in the basket. Tucking in the small ones of his younger brother and sister.
“She got into USC. I thought she could stay here, hang out with you and your friends. Just to get acclimated.” She says, looking down as she chops up a carrot. “Her mom’s staying back in Honduras where they live now and she just wanted to get out. See the world other than where she’s from. You get it.”
Leehan sighed, “we don’t need another buddy; and why do we need another person in here? It’s already crowded as is.” His little siblings breeze past him, pushing him into the counter as they giggle—running amok in the kitchen and living room.
Mrs. Kim slammed the knife down with a sneer. “No playing in the living room! Go in the yard!”
The two little ones scattered instantly, shrieking as they bolted for the back door. Leehan winced, rubbing the spot on his hip where a rogue elbow had caught him. “See?” he muttered. “Chaos. Pure chaos. And you wanna add another college student into this circus?”
His mom didn’t even look up as she slid the carrots into a bowl. “She’s not just any college student. She’s Alexa’s daughter. And she’s never lived away from home before. She’ll need support.”
“Support,” he echoed flatly. “Right. And by support you mean me.”
Mrs. Kim shot him a look that could level a grown man. “I mean all of us. But especially you. You’re the oldest. Responsible. Reliable.”
He blinked. “Mom, you asked me to unclog the shower last week and I nearly passed out from the smell.”
“Exactly,” she said, patting his cheek. “Builds character.”
He groaned into the laundry basket. “And what’s her name?” he asked, voice muffled in defeat.
“Xiomara.”
Leehan lifted his head like she’d just announced they were adopting a Bengal tiger. “Xiomara?” he repeated, slowly, like the name itself was a threat. “Mom, that sounds like a girl who walks into a room and immediately ruins my life.”
Mrs. Kim swatted his arm with a dish towel. “She’s very sweet!”
“That’s what people said about Riki before he started bossing me around,” he muttered.
From outside, one of his little siblings shrieked triumphantly, followed by a loud thump. Mrs. Kim didn’t even flinch. “You’ll take her around, introduce her to your friends, show her the area—”
“Mom.”
“—help her move in, make sure she’s eating—”
“Mom.”
“—maybe drive her to orientation—”
“Mom!”
Finally, she looked up.
“What?”
“I’m not a babysitter,” he huffed. “I barely babysit them.” He pointed out the window where one of the kids was trying to climb the garden hose like it was a rope in gym class.
Mrs. Kim clicked her tongue as she went to chop some garlic. “She’s not a baby. She’s eighteen.”
Leehan’s soul left his body. “EIGHT—Mom, that’s literally barely legal! I can’t be seen hanging out with a kid! I’m twenty! People will think I’m recruiting!”
Mrs. Kim pursed her lips, squinting her eyes as she clutched the knife tighter in her hands. No words were spoken as she tapped the surface slowly.
Leehan froze.
Not because she looked angry—but because that tap? That knife-tap? That was the “choose your next words like your life depends on it” tap.
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay. Alright. That came out wrong.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He gulped.
“What I meant,” he corrected quickly, “was that—uh—eighteen is…young. Very young. Like ‘still doesn’t know which side of the street has the bus stop’ young.”
His mother didn’t blink. “Continue.”
“And!” he added, voice cracking like a man under interrogation, “—and I am not qualified for mentorship. I’m barely feeding myself on time. I had cereal for dinner yesterday.”
“That’s because you refused to eat the stew I made.”
“It had mushrooms!”
Tap. Tap.
He winced.
Mrs. Kim sighed through her nose, the way women do when they’ve raised three children, a husband, and apparently now one extra stray. “She is not a kid. She is a guest. A guest who will be living under my roof. Which means she will be treated like family.”
Leehan nodded rapidly. “Right. Family. Like a sibling.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Perfect,” he said.
A beat.
“Except,” she raised a brow, “you will not treat her like you treat your siblings.”
He blinked. “Why not?”
“Because you terrorize them.”
“I don’t.” He shakes his head.
“I’m not arguing with you, son.”
“Fine.” He nods in relent. “So…where’s she gonna sleep?”
“Your room.”
The words landed like a brick to the skull.
Leehan straightened slowly, arms going stiff at his sides. “My…room,” he repeated, making sure he hadn’t misheard. “As in—my room, where I sleep. Where my stuff lives. Where I—exist.”
“Yes,” his mother said simply, drying her hands on a towel. “She needs a space that’s clean and quiet. And yours is the only one that makes sense.”
He stared at her, chest tight. “Mom, my room is my only space. The only place in this entire house that’s not—” he gestured around at the chaos, the abandoned toys, the scribbles on the fridge, the sticky handprints on the cupboards— “that.”
“I know,” she said, and her voice wasn’t sharp this time. It was steady. Unmoving. “Which is why I’m trusting you with this.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. The weight behind her words was unmistakable.
“She’s coming here alone,” Mrs. Kim continued softly. “No family. No support system. No familiarity. She’s walking into a country she doesn’t know, a language she barely uses, a school she’s hardly seen. She’s still a child to her mother, no matter how old she is.”
Leehan’s breath stalled.
“She needs safety,” she said. “And stability. She needs someone who won’t overwhelm her or talk down to her. At least give her sympathy.”
He pressed his lips together, throat tightening.
“And you,” she added, looking him in the eyes now, “are the one I trust the most to give her that. Not because you’re perfect. But because you’re my son and I raised you to take care of people always.”
Silence.
A thick, heavy silence.
He let out a slow breath. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll move my things.”
Mrs. Kim nodded, relieved—but not triumphant. “Thank you.”
He stared at the floor, at the laundry basket, at nothing in particular.
“…What’s she like?” he asked after a moment. Not annoyed. Not sarcastic. Just…trying to understand the person stepping into his life.
His mom paused, thinking. “Smart,” she said. “Kind. Quiet. More observant than she lets on. But she's a nice girl, you guys would like her.”
He nodded once.
Then again.
“Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll be good to her.”
“I know you will.”
A beat passed—the kind that settles into the air, makes everything feel more real.
“What time does her flight get in?” he asked.
“One hour.”
His eyes widened. “Mom—”
“Go,” she said, waving him off. “Take the car, I’ll move your stuff.”
He grabbed his keys, heart pounding as he jogged toward the door.
And as he makes his way out to the beat up driveway, he comes across you walking up his porch. He steps back, soft laughter as he puts his hands up in defense. “Woah…gonna bite my head off, Chihuahua?”
“Shut up,” you cross your arms—rolling your eyes as you resist a laugh. “I left my bag here yesterday. I’ve come to retrieve it.”
He nods affirmatively, brushing past you as he gently yanks a curl of yours on his way down the steps. “It’s in my closet.”
You reached down to swat his arm. “Where you going?”
He turns back, one foot already on the next step, breath still a little fast from the sprint out of the house. The sunlight catches on his face, softening everything he’s trying so hard to keep steady.
“Airport,” he says simply.
Your brows pull together. “Now?”
He huffs—short, almost incredulous—as if he just realized the timing doesn’t make any damn sense either. “Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Apparently I’m a morning person now.”
You blink at him. “Since when?”
“Since today,” he says, dead serious.
There’s no joke behind it. No smirk. He’s standing there looking wired, focused, too awake for someone who hasn’t even had breakfast yet.
You tilt your head, studying him. Something in his voice is different—quieter, heavier. “Family?”
He hesitates. Just long enough for the truth to flash across his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Kind of.”
“Can I ride with you?” You shrug, “I’m bored and I have literally nothing else to do.”
He jerks his chin toward the driveway, already moving, steps quick and purposeful. You follow him down the porch, your shoulder brushing his for half a second—a tiny contact, but he feels it. You can tell by the way his breath stutters before he masks it. Annoyance but patient in some way.
The car beeps unlocked.
He opens the passenger door for you without a word. You lean against the door before you sit, preparing to ask him something. But as you do, a voice calls out:
“Oi! Where are you two off to?”
You both turn to see Shota coming from across the street—backpack in tow as he bounces over. His dyed, blond hair shining in the beaming sun. “You two know I have attachment issues.”
You laugh softly as you brush your hair off your shoulder. “Ask your best friend, his mood is shot.”
Leehan sighed, “my mood isn’t anything, Bun—I just have to go and you’re making me late.”
“Late for what?!” Another voice calls across the street.
It was weird, yet convenient how your guys’ houses were lined up. The best way to describe it would be akin to a square and its vertices. Right beside Leehan was your house. Directly parallel to you was Riki, then parallel to Leehan was Shota.
Riki jogs down his driveway, one hand raking through his hair, the other shoving his keys into his pocket like he’s already annoyed at the world and hasn’t even reached the sidewalk yet.
He eyes the three of you gathered around Leehan’s half-opened car door. “What’s happening?” he asks, breath a little uneven like he’d been rushing.
Shota throws his hands up dramatically. “A betrayal is happening. They were about to leave me. Again.”
Leehan’s jaw flexes. “No one’s betraying anyone. I just have somewhere to be.”
Riki’s gaze flicks to you, quick and sharp, then to Leehan—reading the tension instantly. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Leehan mutters.
You answer for him. “He’s lying. Obviously. He opened the car door for me without calling me a dickhead. I’m concerned.”
Shota gasps like you’ve announced a national emergency. “Oh that’s new.”
Leehan drags a hand down his face. “Can you three—just this once—not be—”
“Entertaining?” Shota offers.
“Observant?” Riki adds.
“Inconveniencing?” you finish.
He looks heavenward, praying for strength. Then he jerks his thumb at the car. “Just get in. All of you.”
“Yay!” You and Shota cheered simultaneously. Riki smiled softly as he opened the back passenger door for the older guy to get in.
Shota slid in the backseat, putting his backpack down by his feet—settling into the seat as he fanned himself. “Can you turn the AC on? It’s like a toaster oven in here.”
Leehan makes his way around the van. “The car’s not even on yet, genius.”
Riki snorts, “move over,” he tapped the top of the van as he waited for Shota to shimmy to the other side. But before he could even put his leg in, a deep, raspy voice—diagonal from the driveway called out for him. “Riki!”
All four of your guys’ attention went in the direction of the sound. The birds chirped over the white noise of the block as somehow the sky clouded over. Reo.
You sighed, rolling your eyes as you turned your back again. Leaning against the car with your arms crossed.
Reo was already discussed previously. Not in any depth anyway because as much as he seemed to matter to Riki—he mattered to you as well.
As an enemy.
As an older brother, though, he was Riki’s sole caregiver and provider amidst their parents not being around. While Reo had to juggle being fifteen and taking care of his ten year old brother, he ensured that Riki was in school, was fed, and had what he needed to essentially have a normal childhood just as anyone else.
However, as Riki grew and started to demand (not literally, but metaphorically) the presence of their mom and dad—Reo didn’t know how to handle it. Couldn’t fathom or configure the idea of wearing so many different hats at once. Mom, dad, brother, nurse, personal wallet, cheerleader, chauffeur until Riki was sixteen, the list goes on.
Leehan, Shota, and you had always had the luxury of support by parental figures—something Riki didn’t have—but it was always afforded to him. Never did any of your parents turn him or Reo away for anything because they knew how hard their circumstances were. But no one dared to call social services because it meant that both boys would be lost in the abyss of the American foster care system and of course, everyone has heard such great things about what happens there.
If either of them needed food because Reo’s check didn’t clear—they got it. Christmas gifts. Clothes. Hot water. Anything in the world, those boys had it as long as you, Shota, and Leehan did.
But once Reo graduated high school (with a C average, just by the skin of his teeth)—he knew to follow in the legacy that his father had left him with—R12. Leaving him to stay in Freeridge and get Riki through middle school, high school, and everything else.
And things seemed fine. Reo was going to work. Participating in the gang dealings that both boys seemed to be familiar with but the older they got, the more the cracks started to show.
Riki learned how to be multiple people at once—a friend, support system, an advocate for all three of you…and Reo’s little brother, the kid everyone in R12 kept an eye on because Reo would set the whole block on fire if anything happened to him.
But it was a lot more complex than that. Reo ensured Riki wasn’t touched, ensuring he didn’t lose his respect. But something shifted once Riki turned fifteen.
He stopped caring about the sanctity of Riki’s youth. Disregarded everything that mattered when it came to his brother.
Riki had dreams. Ones that seemed small to others but too big for Freeridge.
And it was simple: make it out.
Since he was a kid, Riki had wished upon a star, tossed a coin into a fountain, closed his eyes extra hard during every birthday wish, wrote a million times under his pillow—for his entire life—the same wish.
To leave.
Not to abandon, not to forget—just to escape the gravity of a place that had never loved him gently. Riki wanted sunlight without bars across it, air without someone else’s name on it, choices that weren’t choreographed by a gang legacy he never asked to inherit.
Reo saw that dream as an insult.
Because to him, leaving meant rejecting the only thing he had ever been good at. The only thing that kept a roof over their heads. The only thing that made him valuable in a world that chewed him up at fifteen and spit him out as a man.
So when Riki talked about getting out—going to college, traveling, anything that didn’t involve the R12 sign—Reo didn’t hear hope. Just betrayal.
And that’s when the shift happened. No more rides to practice. No more checking if Riki ate. No more showing up to school events pretending he wasn’t bone-tired.
Instead—cold orders. Sharp warnings. A hardness that didn’t belong in a home but lived there anyway.
Reo stopped seeing Riki as a kid. Stopped seeing him as a brother. Started seeing him as a liability—someone who wanted to run from the very life Reo had bled to keep intact for him.
Riki never said it out loud, not to you, not to anyone. But every time Reo’s voice cut through the street, every time those R12 men watched him too closely, every time his shoulders went rigid—
You could tell. Because you knew these three like yourself. If you were an impulsive, neurotic, hotheaded chihuahua then Leehan was a pressured, ticking time bomb with oldest sibling syndrome. Shota was a mildly deluded individual that blocked out the negativity in the world by living by his rules. Like Riki was a hurricane contained in a bottle—soft and mesmerizing one moment, destructive and untamable the next. He absorbed everything around him—the chaos, the expectations, the danger—and carried it with a grace that no one else could sustain. But inside, that wish to escape, to be free of Freeridge and the shadows of R12, was a constant pressure, a weight that bent him without breaking him.
And you could see it in the way he flinched when Reo’s name was mentioned, in the subtle tension in his shoulders when someone lingered too long on the block, in the way he smiled a little too hard, laughed a little too loud, just to convince himself he was still okay.
He was caught between worlds: the world he wanted, and the world that had claimed him before he even knew how to fight for himself. And you—well, you understood that storm better than anyone.
The older brother in question jogged across the street. His gaze never left his little brother the whole time. When he finally made it to the driveway, Reo—now twenty-five—stood before you and everyone.
Him and Riki were exactly the same height. A nice six foot one. Reo’s presence hit like a wall, all angles and edges and deliberate weight. His hair, dark and cropped close on the sides, caught the sun in streaks of bronze where it had faded at the tips. His jaw was sharp, square, defined, with the faintest shadow of stubble that made him look older than his twenty-five years. Eyes like storm clouds—a very dark brown—hovered between calculating and exhausted, the kind of eyes that had seen too much too young.
Broad shoulders, strong arms, and a chest that filled out his fitted shirt made him look like he could carry the weight of the street on his back. Even his stance—feet planted just so, fists loose but ready—spoke of someone who had fought to keep everything together, someone who moved with both authority and quiet warning. Every detail about him—the set of his brow, the crease at the corner of his mouth, the way his gaze flicked to Riki first—was a reminder that he wasn’t just an older brother. He was a force.
But he wasn’t impolite.
He scanned the rest of you three with a masked smile. Bending down slightly, poking his head into the van—he caught Shota’s view. “Hi, Shota.”
The guy nodded silently, waving his hand as he put one of his wired earbuds in.
“Donghyun,” he nodded as he looked at Leehan—who leaned against the car with his hands and opened his palm. Hardly smiling but just enough to acknowledge the elder.
Then finally, his eyes fell to you. More like your side profile as you refused to even look at him. The last time you laid eyes on him was the day you left for college—so nearly a year ago. You hadn’t visited during breaks, money was too tight for you to come back and forth.
Watching him stand on the sidewalk beside his younger brother as the three of you all drove onto the next part of your lives was probably the most sadistic thing you’ve seen out of him. The memory was like a picture in your mind. Him, resting a hand on Riki’s shoulder as their eyes hadn’t left you. Like he was reminding him of what he never wanted to come to fruition for Riki.
“Bunnyboo…” he called out with a smile. “You look beautiful. I’ve missed you.”
You stiffened at the voice, the familiar tone threading through the warm morning air, carrying all the weight of his presence. That smile—something in it was the same as before, teasing yet measured, like he had rehearsed it a thousand times to keep control—but there was an undercurrent there, an edge of something almost vulnerable, something carefully tucked beneath the force of his usual armor.
“Hm.” You inhaled, arms tightening as you crossed them.
He probed on though, “you’ve grown. You still carry your Bratz dolls in your backpack?”
You scoff, smacking your teeth. “That was like fifteen years ago.”
Reo chuckled, a low, controlled sound that somehow carried both amusement and a trace of disbelief. “That long, huh? I feel like that’s the kind of thing that sticks with you forever,” he said, eyes flicking briefly to the gold, nameplate necklace with your actual name on it. The one you wore every single day since you were a kid. There was a softness in that look, fleeting, but it was there—an acknowledgment of the person you were then, the person you’d become.
You rolled your eyes, brushing a curl behind your ear. “Yeah, well, some of us grow up,” you said, trying for a casual tone, though your voice carried just enough bite to hint that you weren’t entirely relaxed.
He took your jab and let it roll down his back. His tongue poked his cheek as he turned to Riki. “We got business.”
Riki’s shoulders tensed, the familiar flicker of unease crossing his features. “Business? Now? At nine in the morning?” His voice carried a note of incredulity that didn’t quite mask the edge of confusion.
Reo didn’t look at him, didn’t even blink. His gaze was fixed, sharp, deliberate, scanning the block like he already knew every corner, every potential obstacle. “Now,” he said again, voice low but iron-strong. “We move fast, or it’s done before it even starts.”
You leaned back slightly against the car, arms still crossed, observing the quiet, absolute command in his posture. Every movement was deliberate, economical—Reo didn’t waste energy on theatrics. Even the way he stood beside Riki, that protective shadow, made your stomach knot. The tension wasn’t just between the brothers—it radiated outward, threading through the air around everyone else, a subtle, undeniable warning.
Riki exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Okay…” He turned to the three of you with a look of frustration. “I’ll see y’all when you get back.”
You watched him hesitate for a moment, shoulders stiff, jaw tight, before he finally gave a small nod. “Be careful,” you muttered under your breath but loud enough for him to catch.
Reo’s eyes flicked toward you, the storm behind them softening just a fraction, like he recognized the weight of your gaze. No words, just a subtle tilt of his head—a silent acknowledgment. Then he turned, and with practiced precision, started walking down the street, Riki falling into step beside him like a shadow, smaller but unwilling to be left behind.
The van sat there idling, warm in the morning sun. You pressed your palms into each, trying to calm the sudden tightness in your chest. The air seemed heavier, charged, as if the space around them carried all the years of responsibility, anger, and unspoken plights between the brothers.
Shota leaned back against the seat, muttering, “Damn. That’s…intense.”
Leehan just shook his head, lips pressed together. “Yeah. That’s Reo for you. Always been that way.”
You stayed quiet, watching the figures recede, knowing that once they disappeared around the corner, the street would feel smaller—and emptier—but the echo of their presence would linger, a quiet warning you couldn’t ignore.
—
The drive south to LAX was relaxing, you on the aux as some music played comfortably. As Leehan pushed the van down the freeway, you hummed along to the music as you watched the world pass you by.
But of course, silence was always short-lived as it pertained to your friends. “So, I assume you and Riki are together again?”
You turned to him with a flabbergasted, yet offended expression. “I’m sorry?”
His eyes widened, tightening on the steering wheel. “I said, ‘I assume you and Riki are hanging out together again?”
“Oh…”
“...as in, you guys aren’t fighting anymore?” He leaned back as he signaled to move to another lane.
“Oh…yeah.” You nodded as your heart rate simmered a little. “Yeah, we squashed it.”
“So what happened?” He said absentmindedly as he turned the music down a little so he could hear you properly.
You gulp, keeping your eyes looking out of the window. “Nothing. We just agreed to…chill, you know. No beef.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Leehan laughed, “you were at his throat less than a day ago and now things are just squashed? What actually happened between you guys? Is what he said true or not?”
This was the thing you hated about lying: the guilt of it. But the fact that you had to think of a lie, say it convincingly, then remember it was entirely too stressful.
Riki didn’t even want to keep this up. He wanted to show you off, hold your hand walking down the street, kiss you whenever he felt like. Not in the dark or behind closed doors within the confines of your rooms or the city’s outskirts. But of course, he was a simple man—and entirely too easy. Whatever it took to be with you, he’d do it.
But your fear of commitment and judgment superseded anything that either of you could want.
“No, we didn’t sleep together.” You said with finality. “He just said that because some of the idiotic R12 members were talking about getting at me. So he—” You used air quotes, “‘put a claim on me’ so that they wouldn’t try anything.”
“So why didn’t he tell us that he did that?”
You somehow reached a flow state. “Because he knows how you two run your fat mouths. It’s just better if everyone thinks the same thing, I guess. That way he doesn’t have to remember who knows what.”
Leehan’s brow arched so high it was nearly touching his hairline. “Mhm. Right. Because he’s soooo organized like that.”
You shot him a glare sharp enough to slice bread. “Can you just drive?”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes still on you. “Nah, because something’s not adding up. Riki said one thing. Shota and I heard another. You acted one way. And now this?” He motioned in a circle at your whole existence. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar,” you snapped.
“So you admit that you’re lying?”
You groaned, sliding lower into your seat until you were practically melting into the upholstery. The anxiety sat in your chest like a cinder block. Keeping a secret relationship hidden from a man like Leehan—who was basically a human lie detector fused with a nosy aunt—felt like trying to hide a fireworks show behind a napkin.
And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong. Your lies were getting thinner, shakier, stitched together by panic. You felt the guilt creeping up your throat—warm, prickly, accusing.
Leehan glanced at you. His voice softened just enough to unsettle you. “Are you scared of him?”
You blinked. “What? Who?”
“Reo.”
You laughed, actually laughed at how off he was. “Please, that dickhead has nothing to do with this.” You folded your hands over your stomach as you crossed your legs in an effort to warm them from the blasting air conditioner. “He doesn’t scare shit over here.”
“So what are you hiding and why lie about it?”
“Oh my god,” you groaned. “Bitch you are so fucking nosey!”
Leehan grinned like a cat who’d finally cornered a mouse. “Yeah. And?”
“And mind your damn business!”
“It is my business,” he argued, turning onto the main road like he wasn’t detonating your blood pressure. “Because every time you lie, Riki acts weird, and when Riki acts weird, I get dragged into some emotional bullshit I didn’t ask for.”
You clutched your chest dramatically. “So now I’m inconveniencing you?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even hesitate. “My chakras are weighed down.”
You stared at him. “You don’t even know what chakras are.”
“I know yours are clogged with secrets.”
You slapped his arm—not hard, but enough to make him jerk the wheel a little. “Leehan!”
“Hey! Assaulting the driver is crazy.”
“Being the IRS of my personal life is crazy.”
He snorted, glancing over at you for half a second. “So you admit there’s something to tax?”
Your jaw dropped. “I didn’t say that!”
“You said it with your face.”
“Shut up.”
He hummed, smug, fingers tapping the wheel like he’d solved a crime. “One day, you’re gonna tell me.”
“One day,” you shot back, “I’m gonna push you out of a moving vehicle.”
“Good,” he said, nodding. “Maybe the fall will knock the truth loose.”
“I wish death on you. A slow, agonizing death. But until then,” you sighed. “Which terminal are we headed to?” You gestured ahead to the iconic big white letters that indicated your arrival.
“Terminal B…” Leehan sighed as he leaned forward, inspecting the bustling airport and the pedestrians making their ways through.
You reached behind you to grab Shota’s backpack, shuffling through it for his bag of sour gummy worms. The owner of said bag extended his hand for you to give him some, not even speaking because he had his own music playing.
You dropped a few gummy worms into Shota’s waiting palm, then tore one in half with your teeth like a feral squirrel. “Thank you for your service,” you mumbled around the candy.
Shota gave you a thumbs-up without looking up, completely zoned out to whatever playlist he lived on. You swore the guy could sleep through a tornado but wake up instantly if someone opened a bag of snacks within a five-mile radius.
Leehan eased the car into the arrival lane, glaring at the chaos like it personally offended him. “Why are airports always like fever dreams?” he muttered. “Every time I come here, I lose five years of my life.”
“Who are we scooping anyway?” You say through a mouthful of candy. “An uncle or some shit?”
“No, my cousin—well…she’s not blood but…” He shrugs as he grabs a gummy from the bag.
You snorted, “I got you, that’s just how people of color work, I guess. Everyone’s a cousin.”
He nodded, “yeah, but this is my first time meeting her. Her mom and my mom went to high school together way back when. Then they moved and shit, now her daughter is going to uni here in the States. Or…will be.”
You furrowed your brows inquisitively, “where are they from?”
“Honduras.”
Your brows lifted in surprise as a smile hit your face. “Oh snap, look at Mrs. Kim knowing people. Mrs. Worldwide.”
Leehan snorted, shaking his head. “Please don’t gas her up like that. She already thinks she’s Pitbull.”
You laughed, leaning back in your seat. “No, because I know she be telling people she’s multicultural just for the fun of it.”
“She does,” he said flatly. “She told her nail tech last week she ‘turns up’ when she listens to reggaetón. Like who says that anymore?”
You slapped his arm. “Shut UP.”
He groaned. “I was like, Mom…you don’t even know who Bad Bunny is.”
Shota, still munching gummies with one earbud in, glanced up. “She thought his name was Benny.”
You wheezed. “Isn’t his name Benito? She was close.”
“Not the point.” Shota smiled, taking another gummy worm. “I just don’t get how…”
Shota’s joke faded into the background, but you barely heard it. Something in your chest shifted—tightened—like a knot being pulled slowly, deliberately, until it demanded to be acknowledged. Everything seemed like white noise.
You watched the crowds outside the car, people dragging luggage, hugging relatives, starting trips, ending them. Moving. Living. And it hit you—hard—that Riki should’ve been here. Should’ve been laughing with you all. Complaining about the LA traffic. Stealing Shota’s gummies and flicking his ear just because he could.
He should’ve been in this moment.
But he wasn’t. Because he was stuck.
Your fingers curled around the bag of candy, knuckles whitening. The thought rose before you could stop it, blooming sharp and aching in your chest. You didn’t say anything at first—just let the idea sit there, heavy, terrifying, obvious.
You didn’t even realize you’d spoken until you heard your own voice.
“…I want him out.”
Leehan looked over. “Who?”
“Wait, I didn’t even do anything…” Shota said with a frown.
You kept your eyes straight ahead. If you looked at either of them, you’d talk yourself out of it. “Riki. I want him out of R12.”
Shota sat up, the surprise on his face softening into something more careful. No jokes this time. No easy shrug.
The words kept coming, quiet but sure, like you’d been holding them back for years.
“I keep thinking,” you said, voice low, “about all the things he’s missing. All the things he’ll keep missing because Reo won’t let him go.” You shook your head slightly. “I can’t stand the idea of him still being there while the rest of us get to…grow. Move forward. Be young. Be stupid. Be normal.”
Leehan’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t interrupt. Neither did Shota.
“He had the best grades out of all of us in school. Joined clubs, made friends, community service, everything. All down the drain because his selfish older brother couldn’t see past Freeridge. But it’s time for me to be selfish, guys, because I want more. For him.”
You swallowed hard. “And I don’t know…maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s impossible, but I just—” you exhaled shakily. “I keep thinking there has to be a way to get him out. Really out. A way to give him a chance at the life he keeps pretending he doesn’t want.”
Shota let out a slow breath through his nose, like he was trying to process ten different emotions at once. “You’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he murmured.
You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.
Because once the thought crawled into your chest, it refused to leave—this stubborn, aching truth that wouldn’t unclench its grip. Riki laughing on a couch that wasn’t surrounded by lookouts. Riki sleeping without one eye open. Riki showing up to dumb little hangouts like this one, rolling his eyes, complaining about the snacks. Riki choosing things instead of surviving them.
You blinked hard. “I hate that I’m starting to picture him as a memory while I’m still alive.”
Shota’s jaw flexed. Leehan’s stare stayed glued to the road, but his knuckles had gone white.
“He’s not gone,” Leehan said quietly.
“No,” you agreed, throat tight, “but you know how that life is. You either end up in prison, dead, or both. And I don’t even want to think about either.”
Shota shifted, like the words physically hit him. “Don’t say that,” he muttered, but it wasn't a reprimand—it was fear.
You stared down at your hands. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Neither of them did.
The signs passed, blocking the sun for a moment—casting a shadow across the windshield, washing the car in gold every few seconds. Each flash made the ache in your chest feel sharper, more real, like the world itself was trying to illuminate a truth you’d been avoiding.
“I keep replaying stupid things,” you said softly. “Like him talking about wanting to visit a college campus. Or saying he wanted to see snow for the first time. Or—” your breath trembled, “—how he used to say he wanted to get out of Freeridge before he turned twenty-one.” You swallowed again, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “He says it like a joke now. Like something he already accepted he’ll never have.”
Shota looked out his window, voice barely above a whisper. “He stopped talking about the future altogether.”
That got you. A quiet, painful exhale left your lungs. “Exactly,” you murmured. “It’s like he’s already grieving a life he hasn’t even lived.”
Leehan finally spoke, low and certain. “Then we don’t let that happen.”
You turned your head, heart thudding. He wasn’t saying it like a fantasy. He was saying it like a plan.
“We figure out a way,” he continued, eyes still on the road but voice steady, “to give him a real shot. A clean break. Something he can’t walk away from, even if he tries.”
✰ synopsis: four childhood best friends thought distance wouldn’t change them. but when you come back home to freeridge after your first year of college, a buried secret and gang politics collide—testing loyalty, love, and the block that raised them.
✰ run time: 17.1k words
✰ mpaa rating: TV-MA — fictional universe (on my block / freeridge, california.), coming of age kinda, found family, morally grey characters, swearing, “secret relationship”, implied sexual content, angst, fluff, banter, drug use and mention, underage drinking, distorted self-image, jealousy, situationship to lovers IM SORRY PLEASE, arguments, gun violence and gang shit, crying, summerween (as per gravity falls love that show), socioeconomic commentary, crude humor (some boundary pushing, but what is art without such), breaking the 4th wall a lil bit (it’s kinda fun i promise)
viewer's discretion advised.
✰ authors note!! (important): hey, welcome to the circle. this, alongside other fics in the future, will be apart of my “as seen on tv” series where i essentially make fics based on my favorite shows! i rmm doing this during my wattpad days but now it has gotten a name and a full blown makeover seeing as i am way more skilled than i was 5 years ago (or at least i’d like to think so).
these fics will literally be a mixture of me writing from memory of the show’s events, creating new scenes and dialogue (obvi, this won’t be a fic ON the show), creating whole new tales but just within the universe itself, etc. some may be oneshots, some may not be! i will make that judgment based on if i feel the fic calls for it or not. but the circle will have more than one. and there will be an upload schedule upon completion (i'm far along already dw), so make sure you turn that tv on.
this is a pilot!! more so, a temperature check to see how we're liking it thus far and if you want more.
you do not need to have watched the shows to understand fics. these can be read separately from the shows. though, it would be more fun!! i’d always recommend on my block as it is one of—if not—the greatest netflix series of all time. it’s all up to you.
soundtrack to enhance reading experience: spotify | apple
You’ve only been back in Freeridge, California for ten minutes and somehow your feet already know where to go.
You grew up on this block—this cracked sidewalk, that bent stop sign, the same sun-faded corner store where y’all used to beg for Slurpees after school. Childhood friends turned family: you, Shota, Leehan, and Riki. Neighbors since tricycles and scraped knees.
You walk up to Leehan’s house—still has the red folding chairs on the porch, the one with the wind chime—and see him and Shota inside through the window, arguing over something stupid like always.
At this point, you knew this house like you knew your own. If you were ever even really there anyway. You’ve spent summers, weekdays, weekends, school years—almost—in this home and it got to a point where you didn’t even have to knock. And if you did, then the door would always open for you because you had a key.
With a lively spirit, you barged inside—duffel bag in tow as you saw two out of your three best friends politicking on the couch. “Hey, assholes!”
Leehan paused in his movements, eyes widening just a bit before his jaw slacked. “You’re back…”
You dropped your duffel by the door with a now deflated look. “Did you expect me to stay in the woods for the whole summer?”
“Yes—I mean, no. No…we didn’t—no we didn’t. Right, Shota?” He turned to the younger, watching as he was on his phone—not even minding the interaction. “Dude!” Leehan snapped as he beamed a pillow at him.
With a thud, Shota’s phone hit the couch. “Yo—oh hey,” he looked at you with a smile. Standing up, opening his arms as he walked closer to you. “I missed you, Bun.”
“Yeah, at least someone did—ooh!” You grunted as Shota strong-armed you, wrapping his arms around you as he lifted you off your feet. “I missed you too, bro.”
He smiled at the words, “you smell like an airplane.”
Laughing, you wrapped your arms around him. Shota wasn’t always the brightest, but he was bright in every other way.
Shota, Leehan, and you all returned from your first years of college and though you didn’t get home right away—you were offered by your school’s writing club to go on a retreat with them after the semester finished. It was fun, enriching, and about five weeks. In a way, it was like summer camp for adults and it was nice to just unplug for a while after a hectic semester.
All three of you attended different schools. And while that was a hard summer’s end—you knew in some way it’d be good for you. The longest all four of you had been apart was a singular day since you were all seven years old. So eleven years later—after endless sleepovers, fights, makeups, robbing convenience stores blind, and late night phone calls—saying goodbye and seeing your cars go in different directions was the hardest thing you ever had to do.
“I missed you guys,” you said softly.
Leehan sighed, giving up his seeming distressed demeanor. “We missed you too,” he joined you and Shota as he wrapped his arms around you both. “How was everything?”
You were too enraptured in the comfort of being in the arms of your friends to realize that there was a third of your heart missing. “It was good…Learn-y, school-y.” Your feet still dangled in the air as you scanned the room; even eyeing the bathroom door for a moment hoping someone would come out. But knowing that it was early noon—Leehan’s little siblings were at day camp and his parents were working. None of them would be back until later in the day.
But even then, something felt hollow. Wrong. And you knew it when you only felt two pairs of arms around you. “Where’s Riki?”
Leehan’s arms stiffened first.
Not dramatically—just this tiny, telltale pause like his brain hit a speed bump. Shota let you down from his hug a little too fast, brushing his hands on his shorts like he suddenly needed something to do.
You frowned. “Hello? I said: where’s Riki?”
Leehan cleared his throat. “Uh…he’s, um…not here.”
“No shit. Where is he?”
Shota wouldn’t look at you. He kept glancing at Leehan like he wanted permission to talk.
“Guys.” You crossed your arms. “I’ve been home for ten minutes and you’re both acting like I asked you who killed Kennedy.”
Shota chimed in, “wasn’t it Harvey Lee Oswald?”
Leehan’s eyes didn’t leave you as he put his finger on Shota’s chest. “Lee Harvey Oswald and Riki’s…just not really around.” He shook his head as he walked to plop down on the couch.
You tilted your head in confusion. Eyes squinting as you had trouble connecting the dots. “What does that even mean? Did he move or some shit?” Crossing your arms as you approached him.
“We just—just drop it, man.” Leehan sighs. “Riki’s irrelevant.”
Your lips parted in surprise as you drew back. “Since—what? He’s been our best friend and neighbor since we were in the second grade and he’s suddenly old news?”
Shota interjected, “can you guys walk with me to the store? I want some chips.”
Without looking at him, you nodded to the door.
Shota tugged his hoodie on and headed out first, leaving you and Leehan in this thick, uncomfortable silence that felt wrong in a house you practically grew up in.
The walk to the corner store was familiar—same cracked pavement, same graffiti that had been there since middle school—but the energy between the three of you was off. Shota kept kicking a pebble like it personally offended him. Leehan jammed his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders tight.
Halfway down the block, you tried again.
“So we’re really not talking about it?”
Leehan exhaled hard through his nose. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
You snorted. “You’re lying. You’re bad at it. And you only get this weird when it has to do with some type of drama.”
Shota slowed his steps just enough for you to catch up. “Look…things got messy while you were gone.”
“What does that mean?”
Another shared look. You hated that look. It meant you’re not gonna like this.
Leehan ran a hand through his hair. “He wasn’t…he wasn’t really hanging with us much. We barely see him anymore.”
“So? We were away. He stayed back because of his stupid ass brother. We know that.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes.
Reo, Riki’s older brother, is heavily involved with a local gang—R12.
R for the family’s first initial. 12 for the street you lived on.
The kind everyone on the block pretends not to see but knows better than to cross. The name carries weight. Trouble, too.
When junior year rolled around, all four of you discussed college and looked forward to moving onto the next chapter of your lives. Shota, Leehan, Riki, and you all thought about attending the same school. Just fun, adulthood, parties, no rules.
But senior year happened and things got serious. Reo was all Riki had. Their mother passed years ago, father was hardly around and Reo had to sacrifice school to follow his birthright: the gang. The same gang everyone warned you about, the same one Riki swore he’d only ever be “adjacent” to.
It wasn’t a choice—more like gravity. Reo demanded more, and Riki got dragged with him. It started small. Doing quick runs, disappearing in the middle of sleepovers, seeing him with small bruises on his ribs.
While the three of you were filing your FAFSAs, Riki hadn’t even made his login yet. Because he foresaw it, he knew that it just wasn’t in the cards for him. Reo made sure of it.
“Man, fuck him. Who even cares…?” Shota rolled up his sleeves as he kept walking.
You shot him a look. “You care. Don’t start lying now. And don’t talk about him like that.”
He didn’t respond—just kept walking, steps quick, like he could outrun the conversation.
Leehan let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s more than just him going through that. There’s…other stuff.”
“No,” you snapped. “Explain it. Because right now you two sound like you’re mad at him for not juggling college applications while dodging gang members.”
Shota kicked at a crack in the sidewalk. “It’s not that.”
“So what is it?!” You snapped, throwing your hands up in anger. “Bro, I’m tired of the fucking riddles like come on! What the fuck happened between when y’all got back and now?” Like usual, your temper was starting to overcome you but you inhaled sharply before the heat ran down your neck and into your gut. “Why are you guys talking like he’s public enemy number one? You have five seconds before I find him myself.”
Leehan looked at Shota wearily, like he was asking for backup but knew he wasn’t getting any. Shota just shrugged, wide-eyed, like you handle it, bro, and suddenly the air felt thick enough to chew.
Leehan dragged a hand down his face. “Because he said some shit, okay?”
“That’s vague as hell.”
He tried again. “He told us something about you.”
You stared at him. “Like what? That I eat my toenails? That I punch idiots that take too long to get to the damn point? What?”
Shota winced like he knew a bomb was about to go off. “He told us that you two…hooked up before we left this year.”
Your mouth parted, breath catching. For a second, you didn’t even react—your brain was too busy finding scenarios in which it’d be solid to break into his house and strangle him while he was sleeping. Nah…the front door was too obvious. All of our houses only have one floor so maybe taking a crowbar to his window wouldn’t be such a bad start. Then the anger hit—fast, hot, bright.
It shot up your spine, tightened your jaw, curled your hands into fists before you even realized.
Leehan took one look at your face and actually stepped back. “Okay—alright—let’s not do the murdery face right now.”
“Murdery?” you scoffed. “Leehan, I’m being polite. You don’t wanna see murdery.”
Shota nodded too fast. “Yeah, she’s being polite, bro. Super polite.”
You didn’t even hear them. Your mind was still stuck on the image of Riki opening his stupid bedroom window at three in the morning to look at the street…only for you to be standing there with a crowbar like, hey bestie, remember me?
“Look,” Leehan put his hands on your shoulders as you heaved—a way of trying to push the anger below your feet. “We didn’t even believe him. We knew it was some bullshit and he didn’t tell anyone else. Just us and…just…” He pursed his lips. “Don’t worry, it’s contained.”
You shook your head as tears stung your eyes. Fists curled as you closed them and tapped your sneakers against the concrete. “I’m not gonna kill him.”
“Mhm, you’re not gonna kill him.” He encouraged.
“So you’re not gonna kill him?” Shota asked, a look of slight disbelief on his face.
“Not gonna.” You inhaled and exhaled smoothly as you opened your eyes. Letting the cool, Californian breeze run through your curly hair. “I’m going to chop his dick off with a cleaver and feed it to him.” You smiled as you backed up, booking it down the street.
Leehan didn’t even get to yell your name before you took off—full speed, booking it down the block with murder in your eyes.
“BRO—GO! GO!” Shota yelped, sprinting after you like his life depended on it.
Leehan was right behind him. “WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS! YOU CAN’T JUST—HEY!”
But you were already gone—cutting corners, hopping curbs, powered by pure betrayal and cardio-fueled vengeance.
By the time they caught up, you were stomping up Riki’s steps, fist balled, and Shota barely managed to grab your arm as you slammed your hand against the metal screen door.
“RIKI!” you barked, pounding again like the door owed you money. “OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”
The house door hummed a little as there seemed to be music playing from the inside. So loud that you don’t even think your banging made a difference.
“Dude, no—” Leehan walked forward, winded as he tried to reason with you. Shota grabbed him before he could advance further. “Just let her…”
Without another word, you forced the door open. The conversations inside cease abruptly. A huge group of guys, probably ranging from late teens to even late twenties, are scattered throughout the house as your view was clouded by thick, strong smelling smog. Through it, the opened door was able to let some of it out for you to see through. The living room was nearly trashed: beer bottles, ashes, wrappers all over the floor as your brows knitted tighter with every step you took inside.
The air was so dense you could taste it—like someone had hotboxed the entire zip code. The music thumped from somewhere deeper in the house, heavy bass rattling the picture frames and your last remaining nerve.
A couple dudes on the couch froze mid-laugh, eyes widening like they’d just seen a ghost with anger-management issues. One guy halfway through rolling a joint dropped the paper entirely. Another blinked at you through the haze, squinting like you were a hallucination he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Leehan and Shota hovered behind you in the doorway, both coughing like old men who’d wandered into the wrong nursing home.
“Goddamn,” Shota muttered. “Even my eyelashes are high.”
“Focus,” Leehan hissed.
You scanned the room—wrappers, beer bottles, someone’s shoe (just one), a chair flipped upside down like it hadn’t survived the last round of whatever chaos went down. And on the wall, barely visible through the smog, a neon light flickered BEER PONG CHAMPIONS, only barely hanging on.
Your voice came out low, deadly, and devastatingly clear:
“Where is Riki?”
The boys closest to you stiffened like you were pointing a gun, not a question. Their eyes darted toward the hallway as one of them lifted a shaky hand and pointed to the kitchen.
You didn’t even thank him.
You just stepped forward, shoulders squared, fury so sharp it cut through the haze better than the open door ever could.
Behind you, Leehan whispered, “Yeah, no, she’s gonna kill him.”
Shota sighed, resigned. “We can at least make sure it’s quick.” It was weird, kind of bizarre seeing you disappear into the smoke.
“Nuh-uh, I’m not going in there with those people.”
As you walked through and turned the corner to the kitchen, you saw him standing in a small crowd with a blunt hanging from his fingers. The moment his eyes found yours, they glazed over. You weren’t sure what exactly you saw in them. They were red, a little hazy and sleepy looking. But seeing you, blew it all.
“What the fuck is wrong with your brain?” You stomp over to him. “Huh?! I leave for writing camp and this is what I’m welcomed by?”
Riki blinks at you, clearly caught off guard by your sudden appearance. He quickly leaned off the surface as he put the blunt out on the counter—not caring if it left a mark. “Woah, hey—”
One of his other associates, a guy with some ridiculous fine line tattoos, cuts in. He eyes you up and down with a condescending smirk. “Who the hell is this chick?”
You turned to him. “This chick is Riki’s supposed childhood best friend. But I guess he wouldn’t know that.” Your attention goes back to Riki. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Disrespecting me like that to our friends?”
The guy stepped to you, his chest puffing up in anger. “Watch your mouth, little girl—”
“Alright,” Riki shook his head as he shifted his body to him. Shaking his head as his high was now fully blown. “You better watch your mouth,” his finger wagged slowly as it lightly rested on the elder’s chest. “Take that bass out of your voice, thank you.”
The tension in the room thickened, the music playing through the house seemed distant now as you watched Riki come to your defense. It wouldn’t be the first—a part of you hoped it wasn’t the last either. But the air seemed heavier than it did thirty seconds ago.
With a final sneer, the guy brushed Riki’s hand off. “Fine. But keep your friend under control, Riki. We don’t need any outsiders causing any problems.”
“I’m an outsider?!” You laugh humorlessly, “please ask—” you approached him angrily but before you could get closer, Riki grabbed you by the arm—his grip surprisingly strong. Pulling you aside in the kitchen “Yo, yo—calm the hell down.”
“Don’t tell me to—”
“Go outside.” He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t have to. It was the tone. Low. Firm. The same one he used back when you’d get worked up over group project partners who didn’t do their share. Except this time, the stakes were way higher than a C-minus.
You yanked your arm, ignoring how warm his hand had been. “I’m not going outside. I’m not done talking to you—”
“I am not having this conversation in front of them,” he hissed, eyes flicking toward the guys watching like it was premium cable. “Outside. Now.”
“Oh, so you can make decisions,” you snapped. “Interesting. Too bad you didn’t use that skill before opening your fat-ass mouth to Shota and Leehan.”
Riki’s jaw flexed. A muscle jumped. “Bro, you’re gonna get yourself jumped, and then I’m gonna have to deal with that and your yelling. Please. Outside.”
You scoffed, loud. “Cute of you to assume I wouldn’t beat their asses and yours.”
That earned you a few offended scoffs from the crowd.
Riki dragged a hand over his face, muttering something in Japanese you were ninety-eight percent sure meant “please, God, not right now.”
With a tight breath, he stepped closer—close enough that his voice dropped and you felt it more than heard it. “You’re in my brother’s house, surrounded by his people. You can’t just bark at everyone and hope it ends well.”
You glared up at him, heat radiating off your skin like you were a human wildfire. “Funny. Because you didn’t seem to care about the consequences when you told the guys we hooked up.”
His eyes widened—there it was. Guilt. Flashing across his face like lightning. “Out. Side.” He grit out. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
You stared him down, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like you were about to lunge first and think later. But the way he said it—low, edged, almost shaking—
Yeah. You knew that tone too.
So you spun on your heel and shoved past him, letting the front door slam behind you as you stepped into the warm air.
Riki followed seconds later, shutting the door softly this time. The music dulled to a muffled thump, the smoke-heavy air swapping out for something crisp, clearer…but still thick between you two.
He stayed a few steps away, hands planted on his hips as he stared at the concrete like it offended him. His voice was low, steadying. “What the fuck is wrong with your crazy ass?!”
“I’m not crazy! I’m angry! How could sit up with our friends and just—”
“What?! Do what?”
You shoved him hard but he barely stumbled. “Fucking dick! Forget that I ever knew you. I never wanna see or hear from you again! Just…” You hold up your hand in repugnance. “Ugh!” Turning to cross the street to go directly to your house, Riki catches your arm before you can make another step. “Stop, bitch—what part of ‘I fucking hate you’ do you not get?”
“Just let me explain! Look, before you at least try to walk out of my damn life—let me tell you—”
You nudged him. “Fuck off,” walking straight ahead and across the street to your house. Disappearing from the scene without another word. Riki groaned in annoyance, massaging his temples as he stood there. Torn between following you or respecting your desire for space.
But after a moment, he lifts the bottom of his black tank top, sighing into it before he’s approached by Shota and Leehan—both boys coming out of the bushes.
Shota emerged first, twigs in his hair, looking like he’d just barely survived a nature documentary. “…She’s alive, right?” he asked, glancing between the street you stormed across and Riki’s murder-face.
Leehan stepped out after him, brushing leaves off his shirt. “We weren’t hiding—we were…tactically monitoring.”
Riki shot them both a look. “You were crouched behind a bush.”
Shota whispered, “Tactical,” under his breath.
Leehan ignored him, eyes locked on Riki. “So? Did you fix it?”
Riki barked a humorless laugh. “Does it look fixed?”
Both boys assessed him. Shota: “…You look like you got hit by a car.” Leehan: “Twice.”
Riki dragged a hand over his face again, jaw tight, chest still rising a little too fast. “She won’t even let me talk. I tried to explain, and she—” he gestured vaguely toward your house—“walked off like I’m nothing to her.”
“That’s because you messed up,” Leehan said bluntly. “Like really messed up. Like…badly.”
Shota hummed. “Honestly, I thought she was gonna deck you. And I was kinda ready to join in.”
Riki kicked a pebble, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Please, I’ve been kicking your ass since the sandbox.”
Shota bristled instantly. “Bro, that was ONE time—”
“It was every time,” Riki shot back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You used to fall over if someone breathed too hard.”
Leehan waved a hand. “Yo, can we circle back to the part where you detonated your entire friendship in under thirty seconds?”
Riki’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The high was gone. The adrenaline was gone. All that was left was that tight ache in his chest, like someone was pulling each rib inward. “I didn’t mean for her to find out like that,” he muttered.
Leehan deadpanned, “you told us.”
“Yeah, because you’re my boys,” Riki snapped, pacing a short line on the sidewalk. “I didn’t think it’d turn into some weird telephone game while she was gone!”
“But you lied on your dick though. What type of cornball does that?” Shota shrugged obviously.
“I didn’t—” He inhaled, his fists curling up as he punched his palm—leaving it stinging.
Leehan sighed. “So you’re saying y’all fucked. She clearly holds the sentiment that you didn’t so…who’s lying?” He opened his hands, prepared to receive any type of clarity on the situation.
“It’s not even about who’s lying, how do I make her not angry enough to not want to punch me in the face?” He gestured to your house. “Bro, her temper is insane! She’s like a fucking chihuahua—”
Shota clapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes going wide. “Ooh, I’m telling on you.”
Leehan nodded gravely. “Yeah, we’re really gonna jump your ass then.”
Riki groaned, dragging both hands over his face. “I didn’t mean—I’m just saying she bites first and thinks later! She’s like—like—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Shota warned. “For your own safety.”
Riki let his hands drop, exasperated. “I’m being serious. She’s not gonna listen to me. She won’t even stand still long enough for me to get a sentence out. I—” He huffed. “I panicked, okay? I shouldn’t have said we—”
“Hooked up?” Leehan offered.
Riki shot him a dirty look. “Shut up. I know it was stupid.”
Shota crossed his arms. “Bro, she finished the year. She spends an extra few weeks on an isolated writing retreat. Missing time with us for whatever reason. She came home ready to hug you. And instead she got you with a blunt, a house full of gang extras, and a rumor that you two were bumping uglies behind her back. Of course she’s mad.”
Riki winced. “…Yeah.”
Leehan’s voice firm. “So start with the truth.”
Riki blinked at him like that was the most unreasonable suggestion ever. “What truth?”
“The real one,” Leehan said. “You said something happened. She said nothing happened. So which one is it? What are we actually dealing with here?”
Riki’s eyes flicked toward your house again—like the answer was written behind your window.
Shota said absentmindedly, lips pursed as he looked down at the dirt beneath his shoes. “She didn’t say nothing happened.”
“What?” Leehan furrowed his brows.
“She just got mad. She never said what did or didn’t happen.”
Riki walked backwards to his house, arms spread in vindication. “Hm. And you fuckers didn’t believe me.”
Leehan rolled his eyes so hard it was audible. “Relax, Socrates. All she confirmed is that she hates your guts.”
Shota pointed at Riki with a half-shrug. “Yeah, bro, don’t act like this is some big ‘gotcha.’ She didn’t say you were lying…but she also looked ready to kick your shit in.”
Riki dropped his arms, irritation sliding back in. “Still. None of you believed me.”
“Because your track record is dogshit,” Leehan said. “You lie about stupid shit all the time. One time you said you could backflip off Shota’s porch and you landed on his mom’s hibiscus.”
“Hey, that flowerbed recovered,” Riki muttered.
“No, it didn’t,” Shota said. “She still brings it up at family dinners.”
Riki threw his head back with a groan. “Bro, can we stay on topic?”
Leehan crossed his arms. “Cool. That means we’re back to the original question: what actually went down?”
Riki’s jaw ticked. He turned slightly, like the angle would help him dodge the question.
Shota wasn’t letting him. “Bro. We’ve known you since you had Lego hair. Just spit it out.”
A long beat.
Riki’s tongue pressed against his cheek, eyes dropping to the sidewalk. “I’ll catch y’all later.” He turned around fully to walk back up his steps.
“Wh—hey!” Shota calls out.
Shota jogged after him, grabbing the back of his tank like a mom snagging a toddler about to run into traffic. “You are not gonna hit us with the dramatic exit when you’re the one who started this whole novella.”
Riki yanked his shirt free with a scoff. “I didn’t start anything—”
“You literally did,” Leehan yelled from the sidewalk. “You started it with your mouth. And continued it with your mouth. And escalated it with your…actually? Still your mouth.”
Riki spun around, eyes wide, offended. “Can the both of you get off my jock? Damn!”
Shota pointed at him, calm and judgmental like an annoyed substitute teacher. “No. Because you’re being a loser. And I say that with love.”
Riki lifted both hands to his face, dragging them down like he could physically wipe the embarrassment off. “Y’all are the worst friends alive.”
“And yet,” Leehan said, stepping closer, “we’re the only ones who can save your dumbass from getting rocked by your girl.”
“She’s not my girl!” Riki snapped instantly, which absolutely no one believed.
Both boys blinked at him like he’d just said the sky was green.
Shota said. “And I’m Scooby Doo.”
Leehan pointed at the door behind Riki. “Stop stalling. We asked what happened. You clearly don’t want to say it. Why?”
Riki’s throat bobbed.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Shifted his weight.
Looked everywhere except at them.
Then booked it right into the house. Locking the door behind him with a click.
Shota and Leehan just stared at the locked door like it had personally offended them.
A beat.
Then another.
“…Did he just—?” Shota blinked.
“Yeah,” Leehan said flatly. “He ran.”
—
The rest of the night was a weird one. It felt like your college nights. Locked away in your space, biding the time until you were finally set free from the deadlines and expectations and able to leave. To be with your family but your friends most importantly.
All three of those boys meant something differently to you; and it almost made you worry about how your life would’ve transpired if you hadn’t been put next to them for talking too much.
Leehan was the diplomat. The water to everyone’s fire as the eldest one of the quartet. The one that spoke when you four were sent to the principal’s office for setting off a stinkbomb in Mrs. Jenson’s art class.
Shota was always in his own world. But he meant it for all of you. He was nearly impossible to hate to the point where if you were too mean to him, you’d start crying. Not only was he unreasonably peculiar at all times, he was the friend that you’d call in the middle of the night just to talk and he’d answer like he wasn’t mid rapid eye movement.
Riki was always very tricky. The rhyme was not intended, I promise. He was the wild card. The spark. The kid who lived like he had a personal vendetta against boredom. He’d drag you into trouble with a grin, swear you were overreacting, and then somehow sweet-talk the consequences down to a warning. He could charm adults, piss off authority, and get the three of you laughing in the same breath.
But he was also the one who always noticed.
When you were too quiet. When your knee bounced under the desk. When you smiled but didn’t mean it.
He’d nudge your foot with his sneaker. Or toss you a note. Or mouth a stupid joke until you cracked.
Riki was complicated. Not in the dramatic way—more in the “why does your chest feel weird when he looks at you too long” way.
Tonight he had you feeling everything except calm. You lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling like it contained answers or at least a refund policy for emotional tax. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that made your thoughts echo.
Shota, Leehan, Riki. Your boys. Your constants. Your headaches.
You exhaled slowly, sinking deeper into your mattress. You’d kill them before you ever lost them. Probably.
Just then, you nearly jumped out of your skin as you heard a sharp knock on your window. Turning your head to the right, you almost fell off your bed as Riki stood there—tall and looming over your window in a black hoodie.
He lifted a hand and knocked again—lighter this time, like that made it any less insane.
You hissed under your breath, scrambling off the bed and practically tripping over your blanket as you marched to the window. Sliding it up, you whispered harshly, “Are you out of your mind?!”
Riki blinked at you, equal parts guilty and stubborn. “You weren’t answering your phone.”
“So your next idea was breaking into my house?”
“It’s not breaking in if the window’s unlocked,” he shrugged, already hooking his fingers over the sill like he was about to climb in whether you liked it or not.
You smacked his hand. “Try it and I’m calling the cops.”
“You won’t.”
“I absolutely will.”
“You won’t,” he repeated, annoyingly sure.
He leaned closer, breath puffing in the cool night air. “Can you just—” His jaw clenched. “Let me talk to you.”
You crossed your arms. “Talk from out there.”
Riki shot you a look like you were being intentionally difficult. (You were.) “It’s cold.”
“It’s a Californian summer night, it’s sweater weather at best.” You shrug haphazardly.
“I’m anemic.”
“No. I’m anemic.”
“Same difference.”
“Go.” You lightly pushed him back and out of the windowsill. “Don’t you have gang members to go rob a bank with, hard-ass?”
Riki’s face twisted like you’d just accused him of running a puppy-smuggling ring. “Rob a—what?!” he whisper-yelled, gripping the window frame before you could shut it. “You think I’d rob a bank with them? Half those dudes can’t even do basic math!”
“Sounds like a personal problem,” you said, trying to pry his fingers off the sill.
He held on tighter.
You glared. He glared back, a standoff worthy of a Western, except you were in pajamas and he looked like a raccoon rifling through trash.
“Why are you still here?” you hissed.
“Because,” he snapped back in a whisper, “my name is getting dragged through the mud, my best friend hates me, my other two best friends think I’m an idiot—”
“They’re right.”
“—and you still won’t let me explain!”
You gripped the window and started lowering it—slowly, deliberately—like a villain pressing a big red button.
Riki’s eyes went huge. “Don’t you—don’t you dare close this window on me.”
You kept lowering it.
“Bro—” Down another inch.
“Are you serious right now—” Another inch.
He shoved his hand under the frame, blocking it like some tragic action hero trying to stop a garage door from crushing him. “I’m not finished!”
“You said plenty,” you replied, voice flat as drywall. “So we’re even.”
“I didn’t get to say anything!” he whisper-yelled, face squished awkwardly under the descending window. “Okay—I said a little. But not in the way you think—ow, that’s my knuckle—can you just—STOP—”
You paused just long enough for him to yank his hand out before he lost a finger.
He immediately slapped both palms on the windowsill, breathless, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “What is wrong with you?!”
“You came to my window at—” you checked the analog clock on the wall, “—one forty-six in the morning looking like you crawled out of a crime documentary and I’m the problem?”
He pointed at you, indignant. “Yes!”
You pushed the window down another inch. Closing it.
He groaned, “oh come on you can’t—” He watched you lower the blinds, your narrowed eyes the last thing he saw before you closed the curtains. “Please?” Riki sighed, leaning against the window as he called out. “Come on, open up for me? Please—”
The TV you had on only increased in volume.
Riki’s head thunked against the glass like he was trying to transfer his brain cells through osmosis. “Are you—are you SERIOUS right now? You’re gonna drown me out with The OC?!”
You didn’t answer.
Cue the theme music swelling louder.
“Boo.” Knock, knock, knock. “Bunnyboo, I know you hear me.”
Silence.
Another knock, faster. “Bro, don’t do me like this. At least yell at me through the glass. Throw something. Flip me off. Give me anything!”
You turned the TV up another two notches.
He pressed his forehead to the window again, palms flat, voice dropping low—half pleading, half warning. “Don’t make me climb in here. I swear to God, I will break in like a raccoon with a vendetta—”
A pillow smacked the glass from inside—the clanging of the blinds as it hit the hard surface.
He flinched. “…Okay. Message received.”
But he didn’t leave.
He stayed right there—pacing once, twice—before finally planting himself on the little strip of concrete beneath your window, sitting down like he paid rent there. Legs stretched out, hoodie bunched at his elbows, head tipped back against your siding. “Come on…” He whispered to himself.
He rubbed both hands over his face, dragging down like he could physically peel the stress off. “I’m gonna die out here,” he muttered. “She’s actually gonna let me freeze to death on suburban concrete. Damn.”
You muted the TV for two seconds—just long enough for him to perk up—before turning it right back on. He deflated so hard you could practically hear it.
“Wow,” he said to the night sky. “She’s evil. She’s actually evil. And she wonders why I lie awake at night thinking about—”
You whacked the window again with another pillow.
He jumped. “HEY—okay, okay! I take it back! You’re not evil, you’re just—” He paused, searching for something nice. “—temperamental.”
Another pillow hit the glass.
He held both hands up like he was being detained. “How many pillows do you have?!”
For a moment, he just sat there, breathing out shaky frustration, knees bent, arms draped loosely over them. The porch light cast him in soft gold, and for once he didn’t look like the loudmouthed, idiotic menace who’d started this whole mess.
He looked like someone who’d been losing his mind over you all night. And then—quietly, almost too quiet: “…Boo. Please let me fix this.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tapping anxiously.
“I didn’t tell them what you think I did,” he said, softer. “I swear. I didn’t make you look stupid. I didn’t—” His voice caught. “I didn’t disrespect you. Not the way you’re imagining.”
You froze behind the blinds.
He exhaled like the words tasted bitter. “I didn’t even tell them everything. Not the stuff that…mattered.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the roots.
“You think I’m out here playing around,” he said. “But I’m not. And I don’t know how to prove that when you won’t open the damn window.”
You didn’t move. He didn’t expect you to.
He tilted his head back against the siding again, eyes closing, breath leaving him in a quiet, frustrated laugh. “Fine,” he murmured. “I’ll sit out here all night if I have to.”
A pause.
“Knowing my dumbass? I probably will.”
Then, he heard movement from inside the house. Leaning into the siding did he lean up as his heart rate jumped. He stood up, brushing his sweats off as he walked around the front of the house. Only for him to be met with your mom—robe, bonnet, and sleepy-face in tow.
Riki froze mid-step, eyes widening like he’d just walked into a horror scene. “Uh…hi?” His voice cracked somewhere between sheepish and terrified.
Your mom blinked at him, hands on her hips, taking in the hoodie, the sweatpants, the midnight energy radiating off him like a storm cloud. “Riki Nishimura,” she said slowly, voice low but deadly calm. “What exactly are you doing on my lawn at—” she glanced at her phone—“almost two in the morning?”
“I—uh—” He raised his hands like a surrendering cartoon character. “I had to go to the store for Reo. I forgot my keys and now I’m locked out…” This wouldn’t be the first time he’s lied to your mom, it was just about whether she’d believe him. “I called him a few times and he’s not answering so…”
“So…you couldn’t go to either of the other boy’s houses? You had to come to my daughter’s?”
Riki’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He looked like a fish trying to talk its way out of being dinner. “Well—okay—hear me out,” he blurted, already panicking. “I would sleep at Shota’s but he snores insanely loud and the last time I did, he almost suffocated from the pillow I put over his face. And Leehan is entirely too particular about how I sleep like he wants the bed split right in—”
Your mom gave him a look so dry it could’ve dehydrated a cactus. “Inside. Now. Before I start asking real questions.”
Riki nodded so fast his hood nearly flew off. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”
But as he followed her toward the door, he couldn’t stop the tiny, hopeful glance he threw toward your window—praying you hadn’t heard any of that, even though he knew deep down…you definitely had.
He kicked his shoes off as he entered, “I promise I’ll be out—” he whispered.
“Shut up, you’re not a guest here. I love you, goodnight.” She yawned as she walked the opposite way to her room.
“Love you too, sleep well.” He whispered back.
Riki stood in the hallway like someone who’d just been adopted and arrested in the same breath. He watched your mom disappear down the hall, the soft shuffle of her slippers fading.
He took two small steps forward. Then froze when the floorboard under him squeaked loud enough to wake the dead. He saw your shadow moving around in your room from the small sliver of light that poked through the gap of the frame and door itself. His gut told him to speed up down the hall. To which he did—swiftly—before you could close the door on him.
But he beat you there, wedging himself in. “Gotcha.” He beamed, shimmying through as he closed it softly behind him.
“Are you crazy?” You whisper-yelled. “Coming into my house like this? Lying to my mom?!”
“I’m just as crazy as you are.” He unzipped his hoodie, tossing it onto the rack on your closet door. “Don’t act like you haven’t lied to Reo however many times—”
“That’s different. If we’re gonna be out late or something but—”
“Look, I don’t care about any of that. I came to fix things with you.” He stepped forward, ensuring you looked up at him. “Just hear me out…two minutes.” You studied him—hair messy from the wind, shirt rumpled, socks mismatched, eyes big and tired and a little frantic. You hated how familiar he looked in your room. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d slipped in after midnight.
“You get one.” You nod once. “And take off those dirty ass pants.” You sighed as you turned to your drawers. Scouring until you landed on a clean pair of black sweats.
With some rustling behind you, Riki stripped out of his pants. Revealing his black Calvin Klein boxers that you loved so much. That he knew you went crazy for.
“…Did you seriously just—?”
“What?” he said, way too innocent for someone in nothing but briefs in your bedroom at two in the morning. “You told me to take ‘em off.”
“I meant go change in the bathroom, you psychopath.”
He blinked. “Why would I walk all the way to the bathroom when your room is right here?”
You stared at him.
He stared back like this was the most logical sentence any human had ever spoken.
“Riki,” you said slowly, pointing the sweats at him like a weapon. “Put these on before I throw holy water at you.”
He snatched the pair from your hand with a tiny smirk—one he tried (and failed) to hide by looking down. “You always give me the soft ones,” he murmured, pulling them on.
“Well they’re yours…” you sigh, plopping right onto the edge of your bed.
He froze mid–pull, waistband halfway up his hips. “…What?”
You blinked at him. “What, what?”
He let the rest of the sweats snap into place, slow, like his brain was rebooting. “Did you just say they’re mine?”
You groaned, falling back on your palms. “Yes, Riki, congratulations, you own a pair of cotton-poly blend sweatpants. Don’t let it go to your head. So what? You’ve been here like a trillion times.”
But of course it did. You watched the shift happen in real time—his shoulders relaxing, his mouth tugging into that stupid boyish half‑smile he only ever got when he felt special.
He toed his discarded pants into a pile and padded over to you, the soft thud of his mismatched socks making him look criminally at-home in your space. “They’re mine,” he repeated, quieter this time. Like he’d just been handed a family heirloom instead of laundry.
You rolled your eyes. “Riki, don’t get sentimental, it’s literally the third time you’ve forgotten to take them back.”
He dropped down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “Still counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does,” he said, leaning back on his hands so his arm pressed along yours. “‘Cause that means when I come over…you expect me to stay.”
Your breath stuttered—just barely, but enough.
His voice softened. “And I know you’re pissed. And I know you’re pretending you’re not glad I’m here.” A beat. “But you said they’re mine.”
He nudged your knee with his. “Let me explain, Boo. Please.”
Your knee bounced, nerves bubbling up in the pit of your stomach as you looked down at your hands in your lap. “You promised, Riki. That you wouldn’t tell anyone what happened that night.”
Riki’s breath caught—not loud, not dramatic, just this tiny break in his chest like your words had clipped something vital. He didn’t move at first. Just stared at you, jaw set, eyes searching your profile like the truth might be written somewhere on your cheek. “I…I didn’t tell them in a malicious way.”
You turned your head as your anger bubbled up in your stomach. But he knew how to placate you. “No, no, no…listen. Look at me.” He gently grabbed your shoulders to turn you to face him. “Damn, you’re like a pitbull.”
You slapped his hands off your shoulders instantly. “Don’t call me a pitbull.”
“You are a pitbull,” he shot back, whisper‑yelling. “Small. Angry. Bites without warning.”
“I’m literally taller than you,” you snapped.
“You are not taller than—okay, you know what, that’s not the point.” He dragged a hand down his face, regrouping, then looked at you with that maddening mix of exasperation and adoration that made you want to smack him and kiss him in the same breath. “Listen to what I’m saying.”
You crossed your arms so hard your shoulders creaked.
He leaned forward, matching your intensity with his own. “I was just doing it for your protection.” He watched your face blend into confusion. “Not from the guys, from the guys my brother deals with.”
“Um…?”
“While you were gone, some of them were saying that they were gonna get at you when you came back. Obviously by that point, me and you already…” He trailed off. “And it was under wraps. But the way they were talking,” he shook his head, his tongue poking his cheek as he recalled the repulsive language. “I had to ‘claim’ you. Let them know you were mine.”
“I’m not an object, Riki.”
“I know, Boo. I know. I didn’t wanna put you in that position but I had to for the sake of those guys leaving you alone when you got back.”
Your brows pulled together, the heat in your chest shifting—still anger, but now tangled with something colder, sharper. “That’s not protection,” you said quietly.
Riki winced like you’d flicked him right in the soul. “I know. I know that. And if there was any other way—literally any—I would’ve taken it.”
You stared at him, trying to read past the excuses, past the dramatics, past the Riki-isms he wrapped himself in like bubble wrap. But his eyes weren’t dodging. Nor were they defensive. Just tired. And tense. And…a little fearful.
Your voice softened a notch. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
He huffed out a laugh—dry, humorless, one shoulder lifting. “Because you’d say exactly what you’re saying now. That I don’t get to ‘claim’ you. That you’re not a trophy. That you don’t need saving.” He added, “plus by that time you were at your retreat, didn’t have your phone. Was I supposed to send a smoke signal? Letter in a bottle?”
“It would’ve been appreciated.” You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I can’t stand you sometimes.”
Riki groaned, “dude, you’re so immature.”
“Me?!” You gasped, “I’m immature yet you fold under zero pressure and stutter when you lie?”
“Don’t do that. We’re grown now, I shouldn’t even be lying to anybody.”
“Right. So telling your groupies about our night of passion was sooo grown?”
He smiled, boyishly. “So you thought there was passion?” Slowing reaching his hand over to your waist before you smacked it away.
“No! I’m just saying that you’re a dick and never consider me for anything. Not me, Leehan, or Shota.”
Riki looked at you like you had three heads. “Are you—what are you talking about?”
You scoffed, “how did they even find out? Leehan told me that only he and Shota knew. Now you’re saying that—”
“I told them after the fact so they wouldn’t have to hear it from anybody else!” He stood up, “gosh, how low do you think I am? Like, do you really think I’m just some loser?”
Your head snapped up at his tone. He wasn’t yelling, but the hurt in his voice sliced sharp enough.
“Riki, that’s not—”
“No, because you’re talking like I’m out here giving press conferences about our business.” He pointed at himself, brows furrowed, genuinely offended. “You think I’d embarrass you like that? You think I’d embarrass myself like that?”
You opened your mouth, shut it, then crossed your arms tighter. “I think you do dumb things without thinking.”
His laugh was one sharp exhale. “Yeah? So do you.”
“That is not the point—”
“It is,” he cut in, stepping closer, eyes locked on yours with that frustrating intensity that made your stomach flip. “Because you’re acting like I’m some clown who doesn’t care about you. Like I’d run around bragging about us to look cool. That’s not me. That’s never been me.”
You faltered. Just a hiccup. Barely noticeable—except he noticed everything. “So telling people about us having sex on a summer night—”
“God, what do you not get?!” He put his hands out in frustration, “I didn’t tell anyone for fun! Or to lie on my dick—not that it was even a lie. I did it because otherwise, you’d have some weird ass guys pushing up on you and I can’t have that. For my sanity or your safety.”
You sighed dramatically, crossing your arms as you looked away from him. Turning your head away like you were a child.
“Look at me.” Riki said firmly but to no avail.
“Hm.” You shrugged as you crossed your legs. Your bare legs rubbing together over your checkered pajama shorts.
He shook his head. “Dude, you need to grow the fuck up and stop acting like a petulant child.”
You snapped your head back toward him so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. “Petulant?” you echoed, voice shooting up an octave. “Oh, wow. Big word. Did you eat a dictionary for breakfast or—”
“See?” he barked, throwing his hands up. “That! That right there!”
“What right there?!”
“You act like you don’t care but then you get mad like you care the most.” He pointed at you like you were a math problem he’d been failing for years. “You can’t even look at me without doing the dramatic little eye-roll-head-turn combo—”
“I do not—”
“You do,” he cut in, stepping forward, voice firm, eyes sharp. “You’re doing it right now.”
Your jaw dropped. “I am not—”
“You are,” he repeated, exasperated beyond mortal comprehension. “And it’s fine—like, it’s actually kinda cute when you’re not actively trying to ruin my life—but right now? Right now I need you to stop pretending you’re five years old and actually hear me.”
You scoffed so loud the walls probably shook. “Five years old? Riki, I swear to God—”
“No, seriously.” He crouched down a bit so he was more level with you, eyes narrowing just enough to make your pulse jump. “Grow. Up.”
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened.
You were halfway to telling him off when he added, annoyingly soft:
“I’m trying to talk to you. Not fight. Not yell. Talk. But you’re making it impossible.”
You blinked at him, chest tight, fury and embarrassment and something dangerously close to vulnerability twisting together.
His voice dropped low. “Stop looking away from me. I hate when you do that.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He leaned in, jaw tight. “And it makes me feel like you don’t care.”
That sentence froze you mid-breath. “…What?” you whispered.
Your heartbeat kicked up so loudly you were sure he could hear it. You sat there, arms crossed, shoulders tense, but eyes finally—finally—on him.
Riki looked back at you with an honesty that stripped every smart remark right off your tongue.
“Stop acting like I’m some villain,” he murmured. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.” He reached up, brushing a curl that fell out of your ponytail—behind your ear. “And with that funky ass temper, I can’t get a word in.”
You stare at him for a moment, tilting your chin to the side his hand was on as your eyes flit to the side. Like you were almost embarrassed to enjoy physical touch from him. “Riki.”
“Yes?”
“How long have you known me for? Do you remember?”
His hand froze halfway down your cheek like you’d just hit him with a pop quiz he absolutely did not study for.
“…Huh?” he blinked.
You sighed, leveling him with a stare that could’ve melted steel. “How long have you known me? Since when?”
Riki straightened, shoulders pulling back as if bracing for impact. “Since we were seven.”
“And in all those years,” you continued, voice low, “has there ever been a moment where my mouth hasn’t gotten me or one of us into some type of trouble?”
He pursed his lips in thought, his eyes seeming to search through the crevices of his brain. “Um…no not really.” Riki looked back from ages seven to twenty—trying to assess when your sharp tongue and impulsive actions hadn’t done them well.
“See?” You smiled in jest. “And you guys just accept me for me. This is who I am. And the fact that you hate it now all of a sudden—”
Riki rolls his eyes, frustration flaring in his chest. “No one’s saying we don’t accept you,” he retorts, his tone firm. “But just because we’ve put up with your bullshit for years doesn’t mean you can’t be held accountable for your words and actions. This isn’t some free pass to act like a brat whenever you want.”
“Yes it is!” You laugh, “because I accept you for all your shit. You’re like a diet version of me.”
Riki’s whole face twisted, “please. You’re the most mini-me of anyone I know.”
“Are you trying to son me?”
Riki laughed, leaning into you as he laid his head on your shoulder. “You are my son, you wanna be like me soooo bad.”
You shoved his forehead lightly. “Shut up.”
He blinked at you, affronted. “Don’t hit your daddy.”
You smacked him again.
“HEY—”
“Keep talking like that,” you warned, “and I’m putting you in the home early.”
He leaned back, pointing at you like you were the crazy one. “You can’t put me in the home. You’re my dependent.”
“Riki, I am older than you.”
“That’s what makes this so embarrassing for you,” he said, absolutely delighted with himself. “Imagine being older and still being my mini-me.”
Your eye twitched so violently he had to bite back a laugh.
Then he softened, just a little—head tilting, voice dropping. “Come on, Boo. I’m messing with you.” His shoulder nudged yours. “You know I don’t think of you like that.” Leaning his head back on your shoulder as he reached down for your hand. “I’m sorry, again.”
You tried—tried—to keep your spine stiff, arms crossed, jaw tight. But the second his fingers brushed yours, your whole posture betrayed you. Your hand didn’t curl around his, but it didn’t pull away either. It just…sat there. Suspiciously compliant.
You exhaled, staring at the wall like it might give you divine guidance.
“I know.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I messed up. I scared you. I made you feel played. I talked too much, I didn’t talk enough—I know.” He lifted his head just enough to look at you. “But I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear to God, Boo, every dumb thing I did was me trying to keep you safe.”
Your throat tightened despite every effort to swallow the feeling down.
“And I know you don’t like being protected,” he added, voice threading into something shy. “But you matter to me. In a way that makes it hard to think straight sometimes.”
Ever since you could remember meeting him, Riki had been your protector. And the worst part? He’d never even asked for the job.
He just…took it.
The kid who yanked you out of trouble before you even recognized it. The teenager who stood in front of you during every argument you started. The grown man now sitting in your bedroom at two in the damn morning, wearing your/his pants and looking at you like you were the whole reason he learned how to fight in the first place.
His knuckles grazed your jaw as he leaned in, nudging your cheek with his nose the way he always did when he was trying to make you smile. It worked—of course it did—your laugh spilling out small and helpless. “Your hero, your knight…” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. The smile that followed wasn’t cocky or teasing, but something almost…bashful. Like he couldn’t believe he’d earned the right to say it out loud. “Remember?”
But the word hero didn’t even begin to cover it.
He’d been a shadow and a shield, a tether and a torch—always one step ahead of whatever chaos you were about to fling yourself into. He carried your messes like they weighed nothing, shouldered your storms like they were summer rain. Half the time you wondered if he’d been assigned to you at birth, like some overworked guardian angel who accidentally got attached.
And you did remember. Every version of him. Every moment he’d stepped between you and the world like it was instinct. Like saving you was simply something he knew how to do—before he even knew how to save himself.
“Mhm,” you nodded—barely, quietly, like admitting it too loudly might crack something wide open between you.
His eyes softened even more at that tiny sound, as if your agreement carried an entire lifetime of shared secrets. His fingers slipped from your jaw to the side of your neck, feather-light, tracing the spot he always touched when he was trying to ground you…or ground himself. You could feel the tremor hiding in his thumb. He was steady for everyone else—impenetrable, unshakable—but with you? His armor always rattled just a little.
“Good,” he whispered, almost like he needed reassurance. Like he was afraid you might’ve forgotten who he’d always tried to be for you.
You hadn’t. God, you hadn’t.
If anything, the memories rose up all at once—him grabbing your sleeve before you stepped into the street at eight years old, him taking the blame for something you’d said at twelve, him pulling you behind him during the campfire argument at fifteen, eyes dark and jaw set like he’d burn the whole forest down before he let someone talk to you sideways. Him now, sitting inches from you, still trying to guard you from something invisible in the room.
He leaned in a little closer, forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice lowering like the hour demanded honesty. “I always wanted to be that for you,” he said. “Even when you didn’t need me to be.”
Your chest tightened—not painfully, but in that terrifyingly sweet way that told you he meant every word. “It’s not like I need you anyway…” You smile shyly as you nudge him with your elbow.
“No?” He laughed, “you don’t need me, Boo?” He beamed, wrapping his arms around your waist—pulling your side into him.
You shook your head, “nope—oof! Dude—”
Burying his face into your neck as he blew raspberries into it, he pulled you back flat onto the bed as you both laughed. You hit the mattress with a soft thud, breath catching in your throat before dissolving into helpless laughter. “Riki—stop—!” you wheezed, kicking a leg uselessly as he doubled down, arms locked around you like he’d been waiting all night for an excuse to tackle you.
He blew another loud, obnoxious raspberry against your neck, the kind that made your whole body jolt. “Don’t need me, huh?” he taunted, his words muffled against your skin as he climbed on top of you. “Say it again. Go ahead. I dare you.”
You tried to twist away, but his grip only tightened, warm and solid and stupidly comforting. “I don’t—!” you squeaked, halfway grinning, halfway choking on your own breath. “I don’t need—Riki, seriously—!”
“Liar,” he declared, without even giving you a chance to finish, pressing his forehead into the curve of your shoulder like you were some sort of pillow he owned. “Biggest liar I’ve ever met.”
You fought him for another second—maybe two—before your muscles gave out in that familiar way they always did around him. The laughter faded into a soft, breathless quiet, the room still humming with the echo of it. His weight settled over you, heavy and warm, like he’d decided this was his new home address.
He exhaled against your neck, softer this time—pressing a gentle kiss there before he raised his head. Nose to nose with you as you both smiled when your eyes met, his voice dropping back to something unbearably gentle. “How was school? You haven’t found my replacement yet, huh?”
“Nuh-uh…no one could ever replace you.”
His lips quirked—not into that smug little smirk he wore when he was winning, but something smaller, almost startled. Like he hadn’t expected you to hand him an answer that soft, that honest, without putting up some kind of fight first.
His fingers brushed your waist, thumb tracing slow, unconscious circles like he was memorizing the shape of you. “Yeah?” he murmured, the word barely more than a breath. “You saying I’m…irreplaceable?”
You rolled your eyes, but it came out ruined—too fond, too warm. “That’s literally what ‘no one could ever replace you’ means.”
His thumb paused mid-circle on your waist, the warmth of his touch lingering like a question he was scared to ask out loud.
“Yeah, but…” he said slowly, eyes flicking over your face as if trying to read something between your lashes. “You say stuff like that and then pretend we’re just—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Nothing.”
Your breath caught. Not because he was wrong, but because he was painfully, dangerously right. “We are nothing,” you said a little too quickly, a little too defensively. “Like—we have to be. You know how it’d look if anyone found out.”
Riki stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was green. “How it’d look to who? Our friends?”
“Yes!” You sat up slightly, annoyed that he wasn’t getting it. “If they think I’m sneaking around with you, it’s gonna make everything weird. I don’t want Leehan or Shota or anybody else thinking there’s…a thing. I don’t want a rift.”
“A rift,” he repeated, deadpan. “You think you and me laughing at two in the morning in your bed is gonna break up the Fantastic Four?”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.” He tugged you a tiny bit closer by your hip, eyes locked on yours. “Boo, we’ve gotten through worse. They’re not gonna fall apart because we—” He hesitated, jaw working. “—because we care about each other differently now.”
You swallowed hard, your voice smaller now. “I just don’t want them picking sides.”
His expression softened like melting wax. He leaned his forehead to yours again, gentler this time. “No one’s picking sides. Not unless you start picking fights again, and even then I’m still betting on you.”
You snorted, the tension easing just an inch.
He took the opportunity, slipping a hand up your back, grounding you with his warmth. “Look,” he murmured, “I get not wanting to make waves. I do. But don’t pretend this is nothing just to keep the peace.”
Your heartbeat thudded once, sharp and loud.
“Because it’s not nothing,” he whispered. “Not to me.”
“I know, Riki…Just—please?” You bring your hand up to his cheek, brushing his chiseled jaw. Though he shook his head slowly with soft eyes, you whispered—lips brushing against his as you mumbled. “Please, for me? Please…?”
His breath hitched the second your lips grazed his—soft enough to deny, close enough to ruin him. His eyes fluttered half-shut, like he couldn’t decide whether to lean in or back away before he did something stupid. “Baby…” His voice was barely sound now, more exhale than words. You felt it against your mouth, warm and shaky. “You know I’d do anything you asked.”
You nudged closer—not kissing him, not quite, just letting the shape of him press into the shape of you. Your palm was warm on his jaw, your thumb sweeping the curve of his cheekbone. His breath stuttered again. “But you’re asking me to pretend,” he murmured, eyes opening fully. “To pretend I don’t…feel this. With you. About you.”
Your fingers flexed at his skin, and he shivered.
“I’m not asking you to pretend,” you whispered back. “I’m just asking you to help me protect what we already have. Before anyone else gets involved. Before it turns into drama or sides or expectations. I just…want us. Quietly. Carefully.”
His jaw clenched under your hand—less anger, more restraint. The kind he only ever showed with you.
“And if I say yes,” he asked, voice low, “does that mean I only get you in moments like this? When the door’s closed and everyone’s asleep?”
Your throat bobbed.
“If that’s what it takes to make sure that we don’t ruin our group.” you whispered.
For a beat, he didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you, his forehead pressing to yours like he was steadying himself on the only thing that hadn’t ever failed him.
Then he exhaled, long and quiet, his hand sliding from your back to cradle the side of your neck. “Fine,” he murmured. “For you.” His nose brushed yours, gentle, aching. “But don’t ask me to act like you don’t mean something to me. Even if no one else gets to know yet.”
His thumb traced your throat, slow, deliberate. “I can’t fake that. Not even for you.”
—
The next morning
—
“Cousin?!” Leehan called out to his mom as she moved through the kitchen. “What cousin?!”
Mrs. Kim sighed as she chopped up vegetables, using the knife as a pointer to gesture to the basket of laundry on the counter that she needed her son to fold. “My friend from high school, Alexa, is sending her daughter to go to school here.”
With a roll of the eye, “school or university? Neither start for another month and a half.” He goes to fold some of the shirts in the basket. Tucking in the small ones of his younger brother and sister.
“She got into USC. I thought she could stay here, hang out with you and your friends. Just to get acclimated.” She says, looking down as she chops up a carrot. “Her mom’s staying back in Honduras where they live now and she just wanted to get out. See the world other than where she’s from. You get it.”
Leehan sighed, “we don’t need another buddy; and why do we need another person in here? It’s already crowded as is.” His little siblings breeze past him, pushing him into the counter as they giggle—running amok in the kitchen and living room.
Mrs. Kim slammed the knife down with a sneer. “No playing in the living room! Go in the yard!”
The two little ones scattered instantly, shrieking as they bolted for the back door. Leehan winced, rubbing the spot on his hip where a rogue elbow had caught him. “See?” he muttered. “Chaos. Pure chaos. And you wanna add another college student into this circus?”
His mom didn’t even look up as she slid the carrots into a bowl. “She’s not just any college student. She’s Alexa’s daughter. And she’s never lived away from home before. She’ll need support.”
“Support,” he echoed flatly. “Right. And by support you mean me.”
Mrs. Kim shot him a look that could level a grown man. “I mean all of us. But especially you. You’re the oldest. Responsible. Reliable.”
He blinked. “Mom, you asked me to unclog the shower last week and I nearly passed out from the smell.”
“Exactly,” she said, patting his cheek. “Builds character.”
He groaned into the laundry basket. “And what’s her name?” he asked, voice muffled in defeat.
“Xiomara.”
Leehan lifted his head like she’d just announced they were adopting a Bengal tiger. “Xiomara?” he repeated, slowly, like the name itself was a threat. “Mom, that sounds like a girl who walks into a room and immediately ruins my life.”
Mrs. Kim swatted his arm with a dish towel. “She’s very sweet!”
“That’s what people said about Riki before he started bossing me around,” he muttered.
From outside, one of his little siblings shrieked triumphantly, followed by a loud thump. Mrs. Kim didn’t even flinch. “You’ll take her around, introduce her to your friends, show her the area—”
“Mom.”
“—help her move in, make sure she’s eating—”
“Mom.”
“—maybe drive her to orientation—”
“Mom!”
Finally, she looked up.
“What?”
“I’m not a babysitter,” he huffed. “I barely babysit them.” He pointed out the window where one of the kids was trying to climb the garden hose like it was a rope in gym class.
Mrs. Kim clicked her tongue as she went to chop some garlic. “She’s not a baby. She’s eighteen.”
Leehan’s soul left his body. “EIGHT—Mom, that’s literally barely legal! I can’t be seen hanging out with a kid! I’m twenty! People will think I’m recruiting!”
Mrs. Kim pursed her lips, squinting her eyes as she clutched the knife tighter in her hands. No words were spoken as she tapped the surface slowly.
Leehan froze.
Not because she looked angry—but because that tap? That knife-tap? That was the “choose your next words like your life depends on it” tap.
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay. Alright. That came out wrong.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He gulped.
“What I meant,” he corrected quickly, “was that—uh—eighteen is…young. Very young. Like ‘still doesn’t know which side of the street has the bus stop’ young.”
His mother didn’t blink. “Continue.”
“And!” he added, voice cracking like a man under interrogation, “—and I am not qualified for mentorship. I’m barely feeding myself on time. I had cereal for dinner yesterday.”
“That’s because you refused to eat the stew I made.”
“It had mushrooms!”
Tap. Tap.
He winced.
Mrs. Kim sighed through her nose, the way women do when they’ve raised three children, a husband, and apparently now one extra stray. “She is not a kid. She is a guest. A guest who will be living under my roof. Which means she will be treated like family.”
Leehan nodded rapidly. “Right. Family. Like a sibling.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Perfect,” he said.
A beat.
“Except,” she raised a brow, “you will not treat her like you treat your siblings.”
He blinked. “Why not?”
“Because you terrorize them.”
“I don’t.” He shakes his head.
“I’m not arguing with you, son.”
“Fine.” He nods in relent. “So…where’s she gonna sleep?”
“Your room.”
The words landed like a brick to the skull.
Leehan straightened slowly, arms going stiff at his sides. “My…room,” he repeated, making sure he hadn’t misheard. “As in—my room, where I sleep. Where my stuff lives. Where I—exist.”
“Yes,” his mother said simply, drying her hands on a towel. “She needs a space that’s clean and quiet. And yours is the only one that makes sense.”
He stared at her, chest tight. “Mom, my room is my only space. The only place in this entire house that’s not—” he gestured around at the chaos, the abandoned toys, the scribbles on the fridge, the sticky handprints on the cupboards— “that.”
“I know,” she said, and her voice wasn’t sharp this time. It was steady. Unmoving. “Which is why I’m trusting you with this.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. The weight behind her words was unmistakable.
“She’s coming here alone,” Mrs. Kim continued softly. “No family. No support system. No familiarity. She’s walking into a country she doesn’t know, a language she barely uses, a school she’s hardly seen. She’s still a child to her mother, no matter how old she is.”
Leehan’s breath stalled.
“She needs safety,” she said. “And stability. She needs someone who won’t overwhelm her or talk down to her. At least give her sympathy.”
He pressed his lips together, throat tightening.
“And you,” she added, looking him in the eyes now, “are the one I trust the most to give her that. Not because you’re perfect. But because you’re my son and I raised you to take care of people always.”
Silence.
A thick, heavy silence.
He let out a slow breath. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll move my things.”
Mrs. Kim nodded, relieved—but not triumphant. “Thank you.”
He stared at the floor, at the laundry basket, at nothing in particular.
“…What’s she like?” he asked after a moment. Not annoyed. Not sarcastic. Just…trying to understand the person stepping into his life.
His mom paused, thinking. “Smart,” she said. “Kind. Quiet. More observant than she lets on. But she's a nice girl, you guys would like her.”
He nodded once.
Then again.
“Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll be good to her.”
“I know you will.”
A beat passed—the kind that settles into the air, makes everything feel more real.
“What time does her flight get in?” he asked.
“One hour.”
His eyes widened. “Mom—”
“Go,” she said, waving him off. “Take the car, I’ll move your stuff.”
He grabbed his keys, heart pounding as he jogged toward the door.
And as he makes his way out to the beat up driveway, he comes across you walking up his porch. He steps back, soft laughter as he puts his hands up in defense. “Woah…gonna bite my head off, Chihuahua?”
“Shut up,” you cross your arms—rolling your eyes as you resist a laugh. “I left my bag here yesterday. I’ve come to retrieve it.”
He nods affirmatively, brushing past you as he gently yanks a curl of yours on his way down the steps. “It’s in my closet.”
You reached down to swat his arm. “Where you going?”
He turns back, one foot already on the next step, breath still a little fast from the sprint out of the house. The sunlight catches on his face, softening everything he’s trying so hard to keep steady.
“Airport,” he says simply.
Your brows pull together. “Now?”
He huffs—short, almost incredulous—as if he just realized the timing doesn’t make any damn sense either. “Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Apparently I’m a morning person now.”
You blink at him. “Since when?”
“Since today,” he says, dead serious.
There’s no joke behind it. No smirk. He’s standing there looking wired, focused, too awake for someone who hasn’t even had breakfast yet.
You tilt your head, studying him. Something in his voice is different—quieter, heavier. “Family?”
He hesitates. Just long enough for the truth to flash across his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Kind of.”
“Can I ride with you?” You shrug, “I’m bored and I have literally nothing else to do.”
He jerks his chin toward the driveway, already moving, steps quick and purposeful. You follow him down the porch, your shoulder brushing his for half a second—a tiny contact, but he feels it. You can tell by the way his breath stutters before he masks it. Annoyance but patient in some way.
The car beeps unlocked.
He opens the passenger door for you without a word. You lean against the door before you sit, preparing to ask him something. But as you do, a voice calls out:
“Oi! Where are you two off to?”
You both turn to see Shota coming from across the street—backpack in tow as he bounces over. His dyed, blond hair shining in the beaming sun. “You two know I have attachment issues.”
You laugh softly as you brush your hair off your shoulder. “Ask your best friend, his mood is shot.”
Leehan sighed, “my mood isn’t anything, Bun—I just have to go and you’re making me late.”
“Late for what?!” Another voice calls across the street.
It was weird, yet convenient how your guys’ houses were lined up. The best way to describe it would be akin to a square and its vertices. Right beside Leehan was your house. Directly parallel to you was Riki, then parallel to Leehan was Shota.
Riki jogs down his driveway, one hand raking through his hair, the other shoving his keys into his pocket like he’s already annoyed at the world and hasn’t even reached the sidewalk yet.
He eyes the three of you gathered around Leehan’s half-opened car door. “What’s happening?” he asks, breath a little uneven like he’d been rushing.
Shota throws his hands up dramatically. “A betrayal is happening. They were about to leave me. Again.”
Leehan’s jaw flexes. “No one’s betraying anyone. I just have somewhere to be.”
Riki’s gaze flicks to you, quick and sharp, then to Leehan—reading the tension instantly. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Leehan mutters.
You answer for him. “He’s lying. Obviously. He opened the car door for me without calling me a dickhead. I’m concerned.”
Shota gasps like you’ve announced a national emergency. “Oh that’s new.”
Leehan drags a hand down his face. “Can you three—just this once—not be—”
“Entertaining?” Shota offers.
“Observant?” Riki adds.
“Inconveniencing?” you finish.
He looks heavenward, praying for strength. Then he jerks his thumb at the car. “Just get in. All of you.”
“Yay!” You and Shota cheered simultaneously. Riki smiled softly as he opened the back passenger door for the older guy to get in.
Shota slid in the backseat, putting his backpack down by his feet—settling into the seat as he fanned himself. “Can you turn the AC on? It’s like a toaster oven in here.”
Leehan makes his way around the van. “The car’s not even on yet, genius.”
Riki snorts, “move over,” he tapped the top of the van as he waited for Shota to shimmy to the other side. But before he could even put his leg in, a deep, raspy voice—diagonal from the driveway called out for him. “Riki!”
All four of your guys’ attention went in the direction of the sound. The birds chirped over the white noise of the block as somehow the sky clouded over. Reo.
You sighed, rolling your eyes as you turned your back again. Leaning against the car with your arms crossed.
Reo was already discussed previously. Not in any depth anyway because as much as he seemed to matter to Riki—he mattered to you as well.
As an enemy.
As an older brother, though, he was Riki’s sole caregiver and provider amidst their parents not being around. While Reo had to juggle being fifteen and taking care of his ten year old brother, he ensured that Riki was in school, was fed, and had what he needed to essentially have a normal childhood just as anyone else.
However, as Riki grew and started to demand (not literally, but metaphorically) the presence of their mom and dad—Reo didn’t know how to handle it. Couldn’t fathom or configure the idea of wearing so many different hats at once. Mom, dad, brother, nurse, personal wallet, cheerleader, chauffeur until Riki was sixteen, the list goes on.
Leehan, Shota, and you had always had the luxury of support by parental figures—something Riki didn’t have—but it was always afforded to him. Never did any of your parents turn him or Reo away for anything because they knew how hard their circumstances were. But no one dared to call social services because it meant that both boys would be lost in the abyss of the American foster care system and of course, everyone has heard such great things about what happens there.
If either of them needed food because Reo’s check didn’t clear—they got it. Christmas gifts. Clothes. Hot water. Anything in the world, those boys had it as long as you, Shota, and Leehan did.
But once Reo graduated high school (with a C average, just by the skin of his teeth)—he knew to follow in the legacy that his father had left him with—R12. Leaving him to stay in Freeridge and get Riki through middle school, high school, and everything else.
And things seemed fine. Reo was going to work. Participating in the gang dealings that both boys seemed to be familiar with but the older they got, the more the cracks started to show.
Riki learned how to be multiple people at once—a friend, support system, an advocate for all three of you…and Reo’s little brother, the kid everyone in R12 kept an eye on because Reo would set the whole block on fire if anything happened to him.
But it was a lot more complex than that. Reo ensured Riki wasn’t touched, ensuring he didn’t lose his respect. But something shifted once Riki turned fifteen.
He stopped caring about the sanctity of Riki’s youth. Disregarded everything that mattered when it came to his brother.
Riki had dreams. Ones that seemed small to others but too big for Freeridge.
And it was simple: make it out.
Since he was a kid, Riki had wished upon a star, tossed a coin into a fountain, closed his eyes extra hard during every birthday wish, wrote a million times under his pillow—for his entire life—the same wish.
To leave.
Not to abandon, not to forget—just to escape the gravity of a place that had never loved him gently. Riki wanted sunlight without bars across it, air without someone else’s name on it, choices that weren’t choreographed by a gang legacy he never asked to inherit.
Reo saw that dream as an insult.
Because to him, leaving meant rejecting the only thing he had ever been good at. The only thing that kept a roof over their heads. The only thing that made him valuable in a world that chewed him up at fifteen and spit him out as a man.
So when Riki talked about getting out—going to college, traveling, anything that didn’t involve the R12 sign—Reo didn’t hear hope. Just betrayal.
And that’s when the shift happened. No more rides to practice. No more checking if Riki ate. No more showing up to school events pretending he wasn’t bone-tired.
Instead—cold orders. Sharp warnings. A hardness that didn’t belong in a home but lived there anyway.
Reo stopped seeing Riki as a kid. Stopped seeing him as a brother. Started seeing him as a liability—someone who wanted to run from the very life Reo had bled to keep intact for him.
Riki never said it out loud, not to you, not to anyone. But every time Reo’s voice cut through the street, every time those R12 men watched him too closely, every time his shoulders went rigid—
You could tell. Because you knew these three like yourself. If you were an impulsive, neurotic, hotheaded chihuahua then Leehan was a pressured, ticking time bomb with oldest sibling syndrome. Shota was a mildly deluded individual that blocked out the negativity in the world by living by his rules. Like Riki was a hurricane contained in a bottle—soft and mesmerizing one moment, destructive and untamable the next. He absorbed everything around him—the chaos, the expectations, the danger—and carried it with a grace that no one else could sustain. But inside, that wish to escape, to be free of Freeridge and the shadows of R12, was a constant pressure, a weight that bent him without breaking him.
And you could see it in the way he flinched when Reo’s name was mentioned, in the subtle tension in his shoulders when someone lingered too long on the block, in the way he smiled a little too hard, laughed a little too loud, just to convince himself he was still okay.
He was caught between worlds: the world he wanted, and the world that had claimed him before he even knew how to fight for himself. And you—well, you understood that storm better than anyone.
The older brother in question jogged across the street. His gaze never left his little brother the whole time. When he finally made it to the driveway, Reo—now twenty-five—stood before you and everyone.
Him and Riki were exactly the same height. A nice six foot one. Reo’s presence hit like a wall, all angles and edges and deliberate weight. His hair, dark and cropped close on the sides, caught the sun in streaks of bronze where it had faded at the tips. His jaw was sharp, square, defined, with the faintest shadow of stubble that made him look older than his twenty-five years. Eyes like storm clouds—a very dark brown—hovered between calculating and exhausted, the kind of eyes that had seen too much too young.
Broad shoulders, strong arms, and a chest that filled out his fitted shirt made him look like he could carry the weight of the street on his back. Even his stance—feet planted just so, fists loose but ready—spoke of someone who had fought to keep everything together, someone who moved with both authority and quiet warning. Every detail about him—the set of his brow, the crease at the corner of his mouth, the way his gaze flicked to Riki first—was a reminder that he wasn’t just an older brother. He was a force.
But he wasn’t impolite.
He scanned the rest of you three with a masked smile. Bending down slightly, poking his head into the van—he caught Shota’s view. “Hi, Shota.”
The guy nodded silently, waving his hand as he put one of his wired earbuds in.
“Donghyun,” he nodded as he looked at Leehan—who leaned against the car with his hands and opened his palm. Hardly smiling but just enough to acknowledge the elder.
Then finally, his eyes fell to you. More like your side profile as you refused to even look at him. The last time you laid eyes on him was the day you left for college—so nearly a year ago. You hadn’t visited during breaks, money was too tight for you to come back and forth.
Watching him stand on the sidewalk beside his younger brother as the three of you all drove onto the next part of your lives was probably the most sadistic thing you’ve seen out of him. The memory was like a picture in your mind. Him, resting a hand on Riki’s shoulder as their eyes hadn’t left you. Like he was reminding him of what he never wanted to come to fruition for Riki.
“Bunnyboo…” he called out with a smile. “You look beautiful. I’ve missed you.”
You stiffened at the voice, the familiar tone threading through the warm morning air, carrying all the weight of his presence. That smile—something in it was the same as before, teasing yet measured, like he had rehearsed it a thousand times to keep control—but there was an undercurrent there, an edge of something almost vulnerable, something carefully tucked beneath the force of his usual armor.
“Hm.” You inhaled, arms tightening as you crossed them.
He probed on though, “you’ve grown. You still carry your Bratz dolls in your backpack?”
You scoff, smacking your teeth. “That was like fifteen years ago.”
Reo chuckled, a low, controlled sound that somehow carried both amusement and a trace of disbelief. “That long, huh? I feel like that’s the kind of thing that sticks with you forever,” he said, eyes flicking briefly to the gold, nameplate necklace with your actual name on it. The one you wore every single day since you were a kid. There was a softness in that look, fleeting, but it was there—an acknowledgment of the person you were then, the person you’d become.
You rolled your eyes, brushing a curl behind your ear. “Yeah, well, some of us grow up,” you said, trying for a casual tone, though your voice carried just enough bite to hint that you weren’t entirely relaxed.
He took your jab and let it roll down his back. His tongue poked his cheek as he turned to Riki. “We got business.”
Riki’s shoulders tensed, the familiar flicker of unease crossing his features. “Business? Now? At nine in the morning?” His voice carried a note of incredulity that didn’t quite mask the edge of confusion.
Reo didn’t look at him, didn’t even blink. His gaze was fixed, sharp, deliberate, scanning the block like he already knew every corner, every potential obstacle. “Now,” he said again, voice low but iron-strong. “We move fast, or it’s done before it even starts.”
You leaned back slightly against the car, arms still crossed, observing the quiet, absolute command in his posture. Every movement was deliberate, economical—Reo didn’t waste energy on theatrics. Even the way he stood beside Riki, that protective shadow, made your stomach knot. The tension wasn’t just between the brothers—it radiated outward, threading through the air around everyone else, a subtle, undeniable warning.
Riki exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Okay…” He turned to the three of you with a look of frustration. “I’ll see y’all when you get back.”
You watched him hesitate for a moment, shoulders stiff, jaw tight, before he finally gave a small nod. “Be careful,” you muttered under your breath but loud enough for him to catch.
Reo’s eyes flicked toward you, the storm behind them softening just a fraction, like he recognized the weight of your gaze. No words, just a subtle tilt of his head—a silent acknowledgment. Then he turned, and with practiced precision, started walking down the street, Riki falling into step beside him like a shadow, smaller but unwilling to be left behind.
The van sat there idling, warm in the morning sun. You pressed your palms into each, trying to calm the sudden tightness in your chest. The air seemed heavier, charged, as if the space around them carried all the years of responsibility, anger, and unspoken plights between the brothers.
Shota leaned back against the seat, muttering, “Damn. That’s…intense.”
Leehan just shook his head, lips pressed together. “Yeah. That’s Reo for you. Always been that way.”
You stayed quiet, watching the figures recede, knowing that once they disappeared around the corner, the street would feel smaller—and emptier—but the echo of their presence would linger, a quiet warning you couldn’t ignore.
—
The drive south to LAX was relaxing, you on the aux as some music played comfortably. As Leehan pushed the van down the freeway, you hummed along to the music as you watched the world pass you by.
But of course, silence was always short-lived as it pertained to your friends. “So, I assume you and Riki are together again?”
You turned to him with a flabbergasted, yet offended expression. “I’m sorry?”
His eyes widened, tightening on the steering wheel. “I said, ‘I assume you and Riki are hanging out together again?”
“Oh…”
“...as in, you guys aren’t fighting anymore?” He leaned back as he signaled to move to another lane.
“Oh…yeah.” You nodded as your heart rate simmered a little. “Yeah, we squashed it.”
“So what happened?” He said absentmindedly as he turned the music down a little so he could hear you properly.
You gulp, keeping your eyes looking out of the window. “Nothing. We just agreed to…chill, you know. No beef.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Leehan laughed, “you were at his throat less than a day ago and now things are just squashed? What actually happened between you guys? Is what he said true or not?”
This was the thing you hated about lying: the guilt of it. But the fact that you had to think of a lie, say it convincingly, then remember it was entirely too stressful.
Riki didn’t even want to keep this up. He wanted to show you off, hold your hand walking down the street, kiss you whenever he felt like. Not in the dark or behind closed doors within the confines of your rooms or the city’s outskirts. But of course, he was a simple man—and entirely too easy. Whatever it took to be with you, he’d do it.
But your fear of commitment and judgment superseded anything that either of you could want.
“No, we didn’t sleep together.” You said with finality. “He just said that because some of the idiotic R12 members were talking about getting at me. So he—” You used air quotes, “‘put a claim on me’ so that they wouldn’t try anything.”
“So why didn’t he tell us that he did that?”
You somehow reached a flow state. “Because he knows how you two run your fat mouths. It’s just better if everyone thinks the same thing, I guess. That way he doesn’t have to remember who knows what.”
Leehan’s brow arched so high it was nearly touching his hairline. “Mhm. Right. Because he’s soooo organized like that.”
You shot him a glare sharp enough to slice bread. “Can you just drive?”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes still on you. “Nah, because something’s not adding up. Riki said one thing. Shota and I heard another. You acted one way. And now this?” He motioned in a circle at your whole existence. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar,” you snapped.
“So you admit that you’re lying?”
You groaned, sliding lower into your seat until you were practically melting into the upholstery. The anxiety sat in your chest like a cinder block. Keeping a secret relationship hidden from a man like Leehan—who was basically a human lie detector fused with a nosy aunt—felt like trying to hide a fireworks show behind a napkin.
And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong. Your lies were getting thinner, shakier, stitched together by panic. You felt the guilt creeping up your throat—warm, prickly, accusing.
Leehan glanced at you. His voice softened just enough to unsettle you. “Are you scared of him?”
You blinked. “What? Who?”
“Reo.”
You laughed, actually laughed at how off he was. “Please, that dickhead has nothing to do with this.” You folded your hands over your stomach as you crossed your legs in an effort to warm them from the blasting air conditioner. “He doesn’t scare shit over here.”
“So what are you hiding and why lie about it?”
“Oh my god,” you groaned. “Bitch you are so fucking nosey!”
Leehan grinned like a cat who’d finally cornered a mouse. “Yeah. And?”
“And mind your damn business!”
“It is my business,” he argued, turning onto the main road like he wasn’t detonating your blood pressure. “Because every time you lie, Riki acts weird, and when Riki acts weird, I get dragged into some emotional bullshit I didn’t ask for.”
You clutched your chest dramatically. “So now I’m inconveniencing you?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even hesitate. “My chakras are weighed down.”
You stared at him. “You don’t even know what chakras are.”
“I know yours are clogged with secrets.”
You slapped his arm—not hard, but enough to make him jerk the wheel a little. “Leehan!”
“Hey! Assaulting the driver is crazy.”
“Being the IRS of my personal life is crazy.”
He snorted, glancing over at you for half a second. “So you admit there’s something to tax?”
Your jaw dropped. “I didn’t say that!”
“You said it with your face.”
“Shut up.”
He hummed, smug, fingers tapping the wheel like he’d solved a crime. “One day, you’re gonna tell me.”
“One day,” you shot back, “I’m gonna push you out of a moving vehicle.”
“Good,” he said, nodding. “Maybe the fall will knock the truth loose.”
“I wish death on you. A slow, agonizing death. But until then,” you sighed. “Which terminal are we headed to?” You gestured ahead to the iconic big white letters that indicated your arrival.
“Terminal B…” Leehan sighed as he leaned forward, inspecting the bustling airport and the pedestrians making their ways through.
You reached behind you to grab Shota’s backpack, shuffling through it for his bag of sour gummy worms. The owner of said bag extended his hand for you to give him some, not even speaking because he had his own music playing.
You dropped a few gummy worms into Shota’s waiting palm, then tore one in half with your teeth like a feral squirrel. “Thank you for your service,” you mumbled around the candy.
Shota gave you a thumbs-up without looking up, completely zoned out to whatever playlist he lived on. You swore the guy could sleep through a tornado but wake up instantly if someone opened a bag of snacks within a five-mile radius.
Leehan eased the car into the arrival lane, glaring at the chaos like it personally offended him. “Why are airports always like fever dreams?” he muttered. “Every time I come here, I lose five years of my life.”
“Who are we scooping anyway?” You say through a mouthful of candy. “An uncle or some shit?”
“No, my cousin—well…she’s not blood but…” He shrugs as he grabs a gummy from the bag.
You snorted, “I got you, that’s just how people of color work, I guess. Everyone’s a cousin.”
He nodded, “yeah, but this is my first time meeting her. Her mom and my mom went to high school together way back when. Then they moved and shit, now her daughter is going to uni here in the States. Or…will be.”
You furrowed your brows inquisitively, “where are they from?”
“Honduras.”
Your brows lifted in surprise as a smile hit your face. “Oh snap, look at Mrs. Kim knowing people. Mrs. Worldwide.”
Leehan snorted, shaking his head. “Please don’t gas her up like that. She already thinks she’s Pitbull.”
You laughed, leaning back in your seat. “No, because I know she be telling people she’s multicultural just for the fun of it.”
“She does,” he said flatly. “She told her nail tech last week she ‘turns up’ when she listens to reggaetón. Like who says that anymore?”
You slapped his arm. “Shut UP.”
He groaned. “I was like, Mom…you don’t even know who Bad Bunny is.”
Shota, still munching gummies with one earbud in, glanced up. “She thought his name was Benny.”
You wheezed. “Isn’t his name Benito? She was close.”
“Not the point.” Shota smiled, taking another gummy worm. “I just don’t get how…”
Shota’s joke faded into the background, but you barely heard it. Something in your chest shifted—tightened—like a knot being pulled slowly, deliberately, until it demanded to be acknowledged. Everything seemed like white noise.
You watched the crowds outside the car, people dragging luggage, hugging relatives, starting trips, ending them. Moving. Living. And it hit you—hard—that Riki should’ve been here. Should’ve been laughing with you all. Complaining about the LA traffic. Stealing Shota’s gummies and flicking his ear just because he could.
He should’ve been in this moment.
But he wasn’t. Because he was stuck.
Your fingers curled around the bag of candy, knuckles whitening. The thought rose before you could stop it, blooming sharp and aching in your chest. You didn’t say anything at first—just let the idea sit there, heavy, terrifying, obvious.
You didn’t even realize you’d spoken until you heard your own voice.
“…I want him out.”
Leehan looked over. “Who?”
“Wait, I didn’t even do anything…” Shota said with a frown.
You kept your eyes straight ahead. If you looked at either of them, you’d talk yourself out of it. “Riki. I want him out of R12.”
Shota sat up, the surprise on his face softening into something more careful. No jokes this time. No easy shrug.
The words kept coming, quiet but sure, like you’d been holding them back for years.
“I keep thinking,” you said, voice low, “about all the things he’s missing. All the things he’ll keep missing because Reo won’t let him go.” You shook your head slightly. “I can’t stand the idea of him still being there while the rest of us get to…grow. Move forward. Be young. Be stupid. Be normal.”
Leehan’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t interrupt. Neither did Shota.
“He had the best grades out of all of us in school. Joined clubs, made friends, community service, everything. All down the drain because his selfish older brother couldn’t see past Freeridge. But it’s time for me to be selfish, guys, because I want more. For him.”
You swallowed hard. “And I don’t know…maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s impossible, but I just—” you exhaled shakily. “I keep thinking there has to be a way to get him out. Really out. A way to give him a chance at the life he keeps pretending he doesn’t want.”
Shota let out a slow breath through his nose, like he was trying to process ten different emotions at once. “You’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he murmured.
You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.
Because once the thought crawled into your chest, it refused to leave—this stubborn, aching truth that wouldn’t unclench its grip. Riki laughing on a couch that wasn’t surrounded by lookouts. Riki sleeping without one eye open. Riki showing up to dumb little hangouts like this one, rolling his eyes, complaining about the snacks. Riki choosing things instead of surviving them.
You blinked hard. “I hate that I’m starting to picture him as a memory while I’m still alive.”
Shota’s jaw flexed. Leehan’s stare stayed glued to the road, but his knuckles had gone white.
“He’s not gone,” Leehan said quietly.
“No,” you agreed, throat tight, “but you know how that life is. You either end up in prison, dead, or both. And I don’t even want to think about either.”
Shota shifted, like the words physically hit him. “Don’t say that,” he muttered, but it wasn't a reprimand—it was fear.
You stared down at your hands. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Neither of them did.
The signs passed, blocking the sun for a moment—casting a shadow across the windshield, washing the car in gold every few seconds. Each flash made the ache in your chest feel sharper, more real, like the world itself was trying to illuminate a truth you’d been avoiding.
“I keep replaying stupid things,” you said softly. “Like him talking about wanting to visit a college campus. Or saying he wanted to see snow for the first time. Or—” your breath trembled, “—how he used to say he wanted to get out of Freeridge before he turned twenty-one.” You swallowed again, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “He says it like a joke now. Like something he already accepted he’ll never have.”
Shota looked out his window, voice barely above a whisper. “He stopped talking about the future altogether.”
That got you. A quiet, painful exhale left your lungs. “Exactly,” you murmured. “It’s like he’s already grieving a life he hasn’t even lived.”
Leehan finally spoke, low and certain. “Then we don’t let that happen.”
You turned your head, heart thudding. He wasn’t saying it like a fantasy. He was saying it like a plan.
“We figure out a way,” he continued, eyes still on the road but voice steady, “to give him a real shot. A clean break. Something he can’t walk away from, even if he tries.”
✰ synopsis: four childhood best friends thought distance wouldn’t change them. but when you come back home to freeridge after your first year of college, a buried secret and gang politics collide—testing loyalty, love, and the block that raised them.
✰ run time: 17.1k words
✰ mpaa rating: TV-MA — fictional universe (on my block / freeridge, california.), coming of age kinda, found family, morally grey characters, swearing, “secret relationship”, implied sexual content, angst, fluff, banter, drug use and mention, underage drinking, distorted self-image, jealousy, situationship to lovers IM SORRY PLEASE, arguments, gun violence and gang shit, crying, summerween (as per gravity falls love that show), socioeconomic commentary, crude humor (some boundary pushing, but what is art without such), breaking the 4th wall a lil bit (it’s kinda fun i promise)
viewer's discretion advised.
✰ authors note!! (important): hey, welcome to the circle. this, alongside other fics in the future, will be apart of my “as seen on tv” series where i essentially make fics based on my favorite shows! i rmm doing this during my wattpad days but now it has gotten a name and a full blown makeover seeing as i am way more skilled than i was 5 years ago (or at least i’d like to think so).
these fics will literally be a mixture of me writing from memory of the show’s events, creating new scenes and dialogue (obvi, this won’t be a fic ON the show), creating whole new tales but just within the universe itself, etc. some may be oneshots, some may not be! i will make that judgment based on if i feel the fic calls for it or not. but the circle will have more than one. and there will be an upload schedule upon completion (i'm far along already dw), so make sure you turn that tv on.
this is a pilot!! more so, a temperature check to see how we're liking it thus far and if you want more.
you do not need to have watched the shows to understand fics. these can be read separately from the shows. though, it would be more fun!! i’d always recommend on my block as it is one of—if not—the greatest netflix series of all time. it’s all up to you.
soundtrack to enhance reading experience: spotify | apple
You’ve only been back in Freeridge, California for ten minutes and somehow your feet already know where to go.
You grew up on this block—this cracked sidewalk, that bent stop sign, the same sun-faded corner store where y’all used to beg for Slurpees after school. Childhood friends turned family: you, Shota, Leehan, and Riki. Neighbors since tricycles and scraped knees.
You walk up to Leehan’s house—still has the red folding chairs on the porch, the one with the wind chime—and see him and Shota inside through the window, arguing over something stupid like always.
At this point, you knew this house like you knew your own. If you were ever even really there anyway. You’ve spent summers, weekdays, weekends, school years—almost—in this home and it got to a point where you didn’t even have to knock. And if you did, then the door would always open for you because you had a key.
With a lively spirit, you barged inside—duffel bag in tow as you saw two out of your three best friends politicking on the couch. “Hey, assholes!”
Leehan paused in his movements, eyes widening just a bit before his jaw slacked. “You’re back…”
You dropped your duffel by the door with a now deflated look. “Did you expect me to stay in the woods for the whole summer?”
“Yes—I mean, no. No…we didn’t—no we didn’t. Right, Shota?” He turned to the younger, watching as he was on his phone—not even minding the interaction. “Dude!” Leehan snapped as he beamed a pillow at him.
With a thud, Shota’s phone hit the couch. “Yo—oh hey,” he looked at you with a smile. Standing up, opening his arms as he walked closer to you. “I missed you, Bun.”
“Yeah, at least someone did—ooh!” You grunted as Shota strong-armed you, wrapping his arms around you as he lifted you off your feet. “I missed you too, bro.”
He smiled at the words, “you smell like an airplane.”
Laughing, you wrapped your arms around him. Shota wasn’t always the brightest, but he was bright in every other way.
Shota, Leehan, and you all returned from your first years of college and though you didn’t get home right away—you were offered by your school’s writing club to go on a retreat with them after the semester finished. It was fun, enriching, and about five weeks. In a way, it was like summer camp for adults and it was nice to just unplug for a while after a hectic semester.
All three of you attended different schools. And while that was a hard summer’s end—you knew in some way it’d be good for you. The longest all four of you had been apart was a singular day since you were all seven years old. So eleven years later—after endless sleepovers, fights, makeups, robbing convenience stores blind, and late night phone calls—saying goodbye and seeing your cars go in different directions was the hardest thing you ever had to do.
“I missed you guys,” you said softly.
Leehan sighed, giving up his seeming distressed demeanor. “We missed you too,” he joined you and Shota as he wrapped his arms around you both. “How was everything?”
You were too enraptured in the comfort of being in the arms of your friends to realize that there was a third of your heart missing. “It was good…Learn-y, school-y.” Your feet still dangled in the air as you scanned the room; even eyeing the bathroom door for a moment hoping someone would come out. But knowing that it was early noon—Leehan’s little siblings were at day camp and his parents were working. None of them would be back until later in the day.
But even then, something felt hollow. Wrong. And you knew it when you only felt two pairs of arms around you. “Where’s Riki?”
Leehan’s arms stiffened first.
Not dramatically—just this tiny, telltale pause like his brain hit a speed bump. Shota let you down from his hug a little too fast, brushing his hands on his shorts like he suddenly needed something to do.
You frowned. “Hello? I said: where’s Riki?”
Leehan cleared his throat. “Uh…he’s, um…not here.”
“No shit. Where is he?”
Shota wouldn’t look at you. He kept glancing at Leehan like he wanted permission to talk.
“Guys.” You crossed your arms. “I’ve been home for ten minutes and you’re both acting like I asked you who killed Kennedy.”
Shota chimed in, “wasn’t it Harvey Lee Oswald?”
Leehan’s eyes didn’t leave you as he put his finger on Shota’s chest. “Lee Harvey Oswald and Riki’s…just not really around.” He shook his head as he walked to plop down on the couch.
You tilted your head in confusion. Eyes squinting as you had trouble connecting the dots. “What does that even mean? Did he move or some shit?” Crossing your arms as you approached him.
“We just—just drop it, man.” Leehan sighs. “Riki’s irrelevant.”
Your lips parted in surprise as you drew back. “Since—what? He’s been our best friend and neighbor since we were in the second grade and he’s suddenly old news?”
Shota interjected, “can you guys walk with me to the store? I want some chips.”
Without looking at him, you nodded to the door.
Shota tugged his hoodie on and headed out first, leaving you and Leehan in this thick, uncomfortable silence that felt wrong in a house you practically grew up in.
The walk to the corner store was familiar—same cracked pavement, same graffiti that had been there since middle school—but the energy between the three of you was off. Shota kept kicking a pebble like it personally offended him. Leehan jammed his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders tight.
Halfway down the block, you tried again.
“So we’re really not talking about it?”
Leehan exhaled hard through his nose. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
You snorted. “You’re lying. You’re bad at it. And you only get this weird when it has to do with some type of drama.”
Shota slowed his steps just enough for you to catch up. “Look…things got messy while you were gone.”
“What does that mean?”
Another shared look. You hated that look. It meant you’re not gonna like this.
Leehan ran a hand through his hair. “He wasn’t…he wasn’t really hanging with us much. We barely see him anymore.”
“So? We were away. He stayed back because of his stupid ass brother. We know that.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes.
Reo, Riki’s older brother, is heavily involved with a local gang—R12.
R for the family’s first initial. 12 for the street you lived on.
The kind everyone on the block pretends not to see but knows better than to cross. The name carries weight. Trouble, too.
When junior year rolled around, all four of you discussed college and looked forward to moving onto the next chapter of your lives. Shota, Leehan, Riki, and you all thought about attending the same school. Just fun, adulthood, parties, no rules.
But senior year happened and things got serious. Reo was all Riki had. Their mother passed years ago, father was hardly around and Reo had to sacrifice school to follow his birthright: the gang. The same gang everyone warned you about, the same one Riki swore he’d only ever be “adjacent” to.
It wasn’t a choice—more like gravity. Reo demanded more, and Riki got dragged with him. It started small. Doing quick runs, disappearing in the middle of sleepovers, seeing him with small bruises on his ribs.
While the three of you were filing your FAFSAs, Riki hadn’t even made his login yet. Because he foresaw it, he knew that it just wasn’t in the cards for him. Reo made sure of it.
“Man, fuck him. Who even cares…?” Shota rolled up his sleeves as he kept walking.
You shot him a look. “You care. Don’t start lying now. And don’t talk about him like that.”
He didn’t respond—just kept walking, steps quick, like he could outrun the conversation.
Leehan let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s more than just him going through that. There’s…other stuff.”
“No,” you snapped. “Explain it. Because right now you two sound like you’re mad at him for not juggling college applications while dodging gang members.”
Shota kicked at a crack in the sidewalk. “It’s not that.”
“So what is it?!” You snapped, throwing your hands up in anger. “Bro, I’m tired of the fucking riddles like come on! What the fuck happened between when y’all got back and now?” Like usual, your temper was starting to overcome you but you inhaled sharply before the heat ran down your neck and into your gut. “Why are you guys talking like he’s public enemy number one? You have five seconds before I find him myself.”
Leehan looked at Shota wearily, like he was asking for backup but knew he wasn’t getting any. Shota just shrugged, wide-eyed, like you handle it, bro, and suddenly the air felt thick enough to chew.
Leehan dragged a hand down his face. “Because he said some shit, okay?”
“That’s vague as hell.”
He tried again. “He told us something about you.”
You stared at him. “Like what? That I eat my toenails? That I punch idiots that take too long to get to the damn point? What?”
Shota winced like he knew a bomb was about to go off. “He told us that you two…hooked up before we left this year.”
Your mouth parted, breath catching. For a second, you didn’t even react—your brain was too busy finding scenarios in which it’d be solid to break into his house and strangle him while he was sleeping. Nah…the front door was too obvious. All of our houses only have one floor so maybe taking a crowbar to his window wouldn’t be such a bad start. Then the anger hit—fast, hot, bright.
It shot up your spine, tightened your jaw, curled your hands into fists before you even realized.
Leehan took one look at your face and actually stepped back. “Okay—alright—let’s not do the murdery face right now.”
“Murdery?” you scoffed. “Leehan, I’m being polite. You don’t wanna see murdery.”
Shota nodded too fast. “Yeah, she’s being polite, bro. Super polite.”
You didn’t even hear them. Your mind was still stuck on the image of Riki opening his stupid bedroom window at three in the morning to look at the street…only for you to be standing there with a crowbar like, hey bestie, remember me?
“Look,” Leehan put his hands on your shoulders as you heaved—a way of trying to push the anger below your feet. “We didn’t even believe him. We knew it was some bullshit and he didn’t tell anyone else. Just us and…just…” He pursed his lips. “Don’t worry, it’s contained.”
You shook your head as tears stung your eyes. Fists curled as you closed them and tapped your sneakers against the concrete. “I’m not gonna kill him.”
“Mhm, you’re not gonna kill him.” He encouraged.
“So you’re not gonna kill him?” Shota asked, a look of slight disbelief on his face.
“Not gonna.” You inhaled and exhaled smoothly as you opened your eyes. Letting the cool, Californian breeze run through your curly hair. “I’m going to chop his dick off with a cleaver and feed it to him.” You smiled as you backed up, booking it down the street.
Leehan didn’t even get to yell your name before you took off—full speed, booking it down the block with murder in your eyes.
“BRO—GO! GO!” Shota yelped, sprinting after you like his life depended on it.
Leehan was right behind him. “WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS! YOU CAN’T JUST—HEY!”
But you were already gone—cutting corners, hopping curbs, powered by pure betrayal and cardio-fueled vengeance.
By the time they caught up, you were stomping up Riki’s steps, fist balled, and Shota barely managed to grab your arm as you slammed your hand against the metal screen door.
“RIKI!” you barked, pounding again like the door owed you money. “OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”
The house door hummed a little as there seemed to be music playing from the inside. So loud that you don’t even think your banging made a difference.
“Dude, no—” Leehan walked forward, winded as he tried to reason with you. Shota grabbed him before he could advance further. “Just let her…”
Without another word, you forced the door open. The conversations inside cease abruptly. A huge group of guys, probably ranging from late teens to even late twenties, are scattered throughout the house as your view was clouded by thick, strong smelling smog. Through it, the opened door was able to let some of it out for you to see through. The living room was nearly trashed: beer bottles, ashes, wrappers all over the floor as your brows knitted tighter with every step you took inside.
The air was so dense you could taste it—like someone had hotboxed the entire zip code. The music thumped from somewhere deeper in the house, heavy bass rattling the picture frames and your last remaining nerve.
A couple dudes on the couch froze mid-laugh, eyes widening like they’d just seen a ghost with anger-management issues. One guy halfway through rolling a joint dropped the paper entirely. Another blinked at you through the haze, squinting like you were a hallucination he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Leehan and Shota hovered behind you in the doorway, both coughing like old men who’d wandered into the wrong nursing home.
“Goddamn,” Shota muttered. “Even my eyelashes are high.”
“Focus,” Leehan hissed.
You scanned the room—wrappers, beer bottles, someone’s shoe (just one), a chair flipped upside down like it hadn’t survived the last round of whatever chaos went down. And on the wall, barely visible through the smog, a neon light flickered BEER PONG CHAMPIONS, only barely hanging on.
Your voice came out low, deadly, and devastatingly clear:
“Where is Riki?”
The boys closest to you stiffened like you were pointing a gun, not a question. Their eyes darted toward the hallway as one of them lifted a shaky hand and pointed to the kitchen.
You didn’t even thank him.
You just stepped forward, shoulders squared, fury so sharp it cut through the haze better than the open door ever could.
Behind you, Leehan whispered, “Yeah, no, she’s gonna kill him.”
Shota sighed, resigned. “We can at least make sure it’s quick.” It was weird, kind of bizarre seeing you disappear into the smoke.
“Nuh-uh, I’m not going in there with those people.”
As you walked through and turned the corner to the kitchen, you saw him standing in a small crowd with a blunt hanging from his fingers. The moment his eyes found yours, they glazed over. You weren’t sure what exactly you saw in them. They were red, a little hazy and sleepy looking. But seeing you, blew it all.
“What the fuck is wrong with your brain?” You stomp over to him. “Huh?! I leave for writing camp and this is what I’m welcomed by?”
Riki blinks at you, clearly caught off guard by your sudden appearance. He quickly leaned off the surface as he put the blunt out on the counter—not caring if it left a mark. “Woah, hey—”
One of his other associates, a guy with some ridiculous fine line tattoos, cuts in. He eyes you up and down with a condescending smirk. “Who the hell is this chick?”
You turned to him. “This chick is Riki’s supposed childhood best friend. But I guess he wouldn’t know that.” Your attention goes back to Riki. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Disrespecting me like that to our friends?”
The guy stepped to you, his chest puffing up in anger. “Watch your mouth, little girl—”
“Alright,” Riki shook his head as he shifted his body to him. Shaking his head as his high was now fully blown. “You better watch your mouth,” his finger wagged slowly as it lightly rested on the elder’s chest. “Take that bass out of your voice, thank you.”
The tension in the room thickened, the music playing through the house seemed distant now as you watched Riki come to your defense. It wouldn’t be the first—a part of you hoped it wasn’t the last either. But the air seemed heavier than it did thirty seconds ago.
With a final sneer, the guy brushed Riki’s hand off. “Fine. But keep your friend under control, Riki. We don’t need any outsiders causing any problems.”
“I’m an outsider?!” You laugh humorlessly, “please ask—” you approached him angrily but before you could get closer, Riki grabbed you by the arm—his grip surprisingly strong. Pulling you aside in the kitchen “Yo, yo—calm the hell down.”
“Don’t tell me to—”
“Go outside.” He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t have to. It was the tone. Low. Firm. The same one he used back when you’d get worked up over group project partners who didn’t do their share. Except this time, the stakes were way higher than a C-minus.
You yanked your arm, ignoring how warm his hand had been. “I’m not going outside. I’m not done talking to you—”
“I am not having this conversation in front of them,” he hissed, eyes flicking toward the guys watching like it was premium cable. “Outside. Now.”
“Oh, so you can make decisions,” you snapped. “Interesting. Too bad you didn’t use that skill before opening your fat-ass mouth to Shota and Leehan.”
Riki’s jaw flexed. A muscle jumped. “Bro, you’re gonna get yourself jumped, and then I’m gonna have to deal with that and your yelling. Please. Outside.”
You scoffed, loud. “Cute of you to assume I wouldn’t beat their asses and yours.”
That earned you a few offended scoffs from the crowd.
Riki dragged a hand over his face, muttering something in Japanese you were ninety-eight percent sure meant “please, God, not right now.”
With a tight breath, he stepped closer—close enough that his voice dropped and you felt it more than heard it. “You’re in my brother’s house, surrounded by his people. You can’t just bark at everyone and hope it ends well.”
You glared up at him, heat radiating off your skin like you were a human wildfire. “Funny. Because you didn’t seem to care about the consequences when you told the guys we hooked up.”
His eyes widened—there it was. Guilt. Flashing across his face like lightning. “Out. Side.” He grit out. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
You stared him down, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like you were about to lunge first and think later. But the way he said it—low, edged, almost shaking—
Yeah. You knew that tone too.
So you spun on your heel and shoved past him, letting the front door slam behind you as you stepped into the warm air.
Riki followed seconds later, shutting the door softly this time. The music dulled to a muffled thump, the smoke-heavy air swapping out for something crisp, clearer…but still thick between you two.
He stayed a few steps away, hands planted on his hips as he stared at the concrete like it offended him. His voice was low, steadying. “What the fuck is wrong with your crazy ass?!”
“I’m not crazy! I’m angry! How could sit up with our friends and just—”
“What?! Do what?”
You shoved him hard but he barely stumbled. “Fucking dick! Forget that I ever knew you. I never wanna see or hear from you again! Just…” You hold up your hand in repugnance. “Ugh!” Turning to cross the street to go directly to your house, Riki catches your arm before you can make another step. “Stop, bitch—what part of ‘I fucking hate you’ do you not get?”
“Just let me explain! Look, before you at least try to walk out of my damn life—let me tell you—”
You nudged him. “Fuck off,” walking straight ahead and across the street to your house. Disappearing from the scene without another word. Riki groaned in annoyance, massaging his temples as he stood there. Torn between following you or respecting your desire for space.
But after a moment, he lifts the bottom of his black tank top, sighing into it before he’s approached by Shota and Leehan—both boys coming out of the bushes.
Shota emerged first, twigs in his hair, looking like he’d just barely survived a nature documentary. “…She’s alive, right?” he asked, glancing between the street you stormed across and Riki’s murder-face.
Leehan stepped out after him, brushing leaves off his shirt. “We weren’t hiding—we were…tactically monitoring.”
Riki shot them both a look. “You were crouched behind a bush.”
Shota whispered, “Tactical,” under his breath.
Leehan ignored him, eyes locked on Riki. “So? Did you fix it?”
Riki barked a humorless laugh. “Does it look fixed?”
Both boys assessed him. Shota: “…You look like you got hit by a car.” Leehan: “Twice.”
Riki dragged a hand over his face again, jaw tight, chest still rising a little too fast. “She won’t even let me talk. I tried to explain, and she—” he gestured vaguely toward your house—“walked off like I’m nothing to her.”
“That’s because you messed up,” Leehan said bluntly. “Like really messed up. Like…badly.”
Shota hummed. “Honestly, I thought she was gonna deck you. And I was kinda ready to join in.”
Riki kicked a pebble, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Please, I’ve been kicking your ass since the sandbox.”
Shota bristled instantly. “Bro, that was ONE time—”
“It was every time,” Riki shot back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You used to fall over if someone breathed too hard.”
Leehan waved a hand. “Yo, can we circle back to the part where you detonated your entire friendship in under thirty seconds?”
Riki’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The high was gone. The adrenaline was gone. All that was left was that tight ache in his chest, like someone was pulling each rib inward. “I didn’t mean for her to find out like that,” he muttered.
Leehan deadpanned, “you told us.”
“Yeah, because you’re my boys,” Riki snapped, pacing a short line on the sidewalk. “I didn’t think it’d turn into some weird telephone game while she was gone!”
“But you lied on your dick though. What type of cornball does that?” Shota shrugged obviously.
“I didn’t—” He inhaled, his fists curling up as he punched his palm—leaving it stinging.
Leehan sighed. “So you’re saying y’all fucked. She clearly holds the sentiment that you didn’t so…who’s lying?” He opened his hands, prepared to receive any type of clarity on the situation.
“It’s not even about who’s lying, how do I make her not angry enough to not want to punch me in the face?” He gestured to your house. “Bro, her temper is insane! She’s like a fucking chihuahua—”
Shota clapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes going wide. “Ooh, I’m telling on you.”
Leehan nodded gravely. “Yeah, we’re really gonna jump your ass then.”
Riki groaned, dragging both hands over his face. “I didn’t mean—I’m just saying she bites first and thinks later! She’s like—like—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Shota warned. “For your own safety.”
Riki let his hands drop, exasperated. “I’m being serious. She’s not gonna listen to me. She won’t even stand still long enough for me to get a sentence out. I—” He huffed. “I panicked, okay? I shouldn’t have said we—”
“Hooked up?” Leehan offered.
Riki shot him a dirty look. “Shut up. I know it was stupid.”
Shota crossed his arms. “Bro, she finished the year. She spends an extra few weeks on an isolated writing retreat. Missing time with us for whatever reason. She came home ready to hug you. And instead she got you with a blunt, a house full of gang extras, and a rumor that you two were bumping uglies behind her back. Of course she’s mad.”
Riki winced. “…Yeah.”
Leehan’s voice firm. “So start with the truth.”
Riki blinked at him like that was the most unreasonable suggestion ever. “What truth?”
“The real one,” Leehan said. “You said something happened. She said nothing happened. So which one is it? What are we actually dealing with here?”
Riki’s eyes flicked toward your house again—like the answer was written behind your window.
Shota said absentmindedly, lips pursed as he looked down at the dirt beneath his shoes. “She didn’t say nothing happened.”
“What?” Leehan furrowed his brows.
“She just got mad. She never said what did or didn’t happen.”
Riki walked backwards to his house, arms spread in vindication. “Hm. And you fuckers didn’t believe me.”
Leehan rolled his eyes so hard it was audible. “Relax, Socrates. All she confirmed is that she hates your guts.”
Shota pointed at Riki with a half-shrug. “Yeah, bro, don’t act like this is some big ‘gotcha.’ She didn’t say you were lying…but she also looked ready to kick your shit in.”
Riki dropped his arms, irritation sliding back in. “Still. None of you believed me.”
“Because your track record is dogshit,” Leehan said. “You lie about stupid shit all the time. One time you said you could backflip off Shota’s porch and you landed on his mom’s hibiscus.”
“Hey, that flowerbed recovered,” Riki muttered.
“No, it didn’t,” Shota said. “She still brings it up at family dinners.”
Riki threw his head back with a groan. “Bro, can we stay on topic?”
Leehan crossed his arms. “Cool. That means we’re back to the original question: what actually went down?”
Riki’s jaw ticked. He turned slightly, like the angle would help him dodge the question.
Shota wasn’t letting him. “Bro. We’ve known you since you had Lego hair. Just spit it out.”
A long beat.
Riki’s tongue pressed against his cheek, eyes dropping to the sidewalk. “I’ll catch y’all later.” He turned around fully to walk back up his steps.
“Wh—hey!” Shota calls out.
Shota jogged after him, grabbing the back of his tank like a mom snagging a toddler about to run into traffic. “You are not gonna hit us with the dramatic exit when you’re the one who started this whole novella.”
Riki yanked his shirt free with a scoff. “I didn’t start anything—”
“You literally did,” Leehan yelled from the sidewalk. “You started it with your mouth. And continued it with your mouth. And escalated it with your…actually? Still your mouth.”
Riki spun around, eyes wide, offended. “Can the both of you get off my jock? Damn!”
Shota pointed at him, calm and judgmental like an annoyed substitute teacher. “No. Because you’re being a loser. And I say that with love.”
Riki lifted both hands to his face, dragging them down like he could physically wipe the embarrassment off. “Y’all are the worst friends alive.”
“And yet,” Leehan said, stepping closer, “we’re the only ones who can save your dumbass from getting rocked by your girl.”
“She’s not my girl!” Riki snapped instantly, which absolutely no one believed.
Both boys blinked at him like he’d just said the sky was green.
Shota said. “And I’m Scooby Doo.”
Leehan pointed at the door behind Riki. “Stop stalling. We asked what happened. You clearly don’t want to say it. Why?”
Riki’s throat bobbed.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Shifted his weight.
Looked everywhere except at them.
Then booked it right into the house. Locking the door behind him with a click.
Shota and Leehan just stared at the locked door like it had personally offended them.
A beat.
Then another.
“…Did he just—?” Shota blinked.
“Yeah,” Leehan said flatly. “He ran.”
—
The rest of the night was a weird one. It felt like your college nights. Locked away in your space, biding the time until you were finally set free from the deadlines and expectations and able to leave. To be with your family but your friends most importantly.
All three of those boys meant something differently to you; and it almost made you worry about how your life would’ve transpired if you hadn’t been put next to them for talking too much.
Leehan was the diplomat. The water to everyone’s fire as the eldest one of the quartet. The one that spoke when you four were sent to the principal’s office for setting off a stinkbomb in Mrs. Jenson’s art class.
Shota was always in his own world. But he meant it for all of you. He was nearly impossible to hate to the point where if you were too mean to him, you’d start crying. Not only was he unreasonably peculiar at all times, he was the friend that you’d call in the middle of the night just to talk and he’d answer like he wasn’t mid rapid eye movement.
Riki was always very tricky. The rhyme was not intended, I promise. He was the wild card. The spark. The kid who lived like he had a personal vendetta against boredom. He’d drag you into trouble with a grin, swear you were overreacting, and then somehow sweet-talk the consequences down to a warning. He could charm adults, piss off authority, and get the three of you laughing in the same breath.
But he was also the one who always noticed.
When you were too quiet. When your knee bounced under the desk. When you smiled but didn’t mean it.
He’d nudge your foot with his sneaker. Or toss you a note. Or mouth a stupid joke until you cracked.
Riki was complicated. Not in the dramatic way—more in the “why does your chest feel weird when he looks at you too long” way.
Tonight he had you feeling everything except calm. You lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling like it contained answers or at least a refund policy for emotional tax. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that made your thoughts echo.
Shota, Leehan, Riki. Your boys. Your constants. Your headaches.
You exhaled slowly, sinking deeper into your mattress. You’d kill them before you ever lost them. Probably.
Just then, you nearly jumped out of your skin as you heard a sharp knock on your window. Turning your head to the right, you almost fell off your bed as Riki stood there—tall and looming over your window in a black hoodie.
He lifted a hand and knocked again—lighter this time, like that made it any less insane.
You hissed under your breath, scrambling off the bed and practically tripping over your blanket as you marched to the window. Sliding it up, you whispered harshly, “Are you out of your mind?!”
Riki blinked at you, equal parts guilty and stubborn. “You weren’t answering your phone.”
“So your next idea was breaking into my house?”
“It’s not breaking in if the window’s unlocked,” he shrugged, already hooking his fingers over the sill like he was about to climb in whether you liked it or not.
You smacked his hand. “Try it and I’m calling the cops.”
“You won’t.”
“I absolutely will.”
“You won’t,” he repeated, annoyingly sure.
He leaned closer, breath puffing in the cool night air. “Can you just—” His jaw clenched. “Let me talk to you.”
You crossed your arms. “Talk from out there.”
Riki shot you a look like you were being intentionally difficult. (You were.) “It’s cold.”
“It’s a Californian summer night, it’s sweater weather at best.” You shrug haphazardly.
“I’m anemic.”
“No. I’m anemic.”
“Same difference.”
“Go.” You lightly pushed him back and out of the windowsill. “Don’t you have gang members to go rob a bank with, hard-ass?”
Riki’s face twisted like you’d just accused him of running a puppy-smuggling ring. “Rob a—what?!” he whisper-yelled, gripping the window frame before you could shut it. “You think I’d rob a bank with them? Half those dudes can’t even do basic math!”
“Sounds like a personal problem,” you said, trying to pry his fingers off the sill.
He held on tighter.
You glared. He glared back, a standoff worthy of a Western, except you were in pajamas and he looked like a raccoon rifling through trash.
“Why are you still here?” you hissed.
“Because,” he snapped back in a whisper, “my name is getting dragged through the mud, my best friend hates me, my other two best friends think I’m an idiot—”
“They’re right.”
“—and you still won’t let me explain!”
You gripped the window and started lowering it—slowly, deliberately—like a villain pressing a big red button.
Riki’s eyes went huge. “Don’t you—don’t you dare close this window on me.”
You kept lowering it.
“Bro—” Down another inch.
“Are you serious right now—” Another inch.
He shoved his hand under the frame, blocking it like some tragic action hero trying to stop a garage door from crushing him. “I’m not finished!”
“You said plenty,” you replied, voice flat as drywall. “So we’re even.”
“I didn’t get to say anything!” he whisper-yelled, face squished awkwardly under the descending window. “Okay—I said a little. But not in the way you think—ow, that’s my knuckle—can you just—STOP—”
You paused just long enough for him to yank his hand out before he lost a finger.
He immediately slapped both palms on the windowsill, breathless, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “What is wrong with you?!”
“You came to my window at—” you checked the analog clock on the wall, “—one forty-six in the morning looking like you crawled out of a crime documentary and I’m the problem?”
He pointed at you, indignant. “Yes!”
You pushed the window down another inch. Closing it.
He groaned, “oh come on you can’t—” He watched you lower the blinds, your narrowed eyes the last thing he saw before you closed the curtains. “Please?” Riki sighed, leaning against the window as he called out. “Come on, open up for me? Please—”
The TV you had on only increased in volume.
Riki’s head thunked against the glass like he was trying to transfer his brain cells through osmosis. “Are you—are you SERIOUS right now? You’re gonna drown me out with The OC?!”
You didn’t answer.
Cue the theme music swelling louder.
“Boo.” Knock, knock, knock. “Bunnyboo, I know you hear me.”
Silence.
Another knock, faster. “Bro, don’t do me like this. At least yell at me through the glass. Throw something. Flip me off. Give me anything!”
You turned the TV up another two notches.
He pressed his forehead to the window again, palms flat, voice dropping low—half pleading, half warning. “Don’t make me climb in here. I swear to God, I will break in like a raccoon with a vendetta—”
A pillow smacked the glass from inside—the clanging of the blinds as it hit the hard surface.
He flinched. “…Okay. Message received.”
But he didn’t leave.
He stayed right there—pacing once, twice—before finally planting himself on the little strip of concrete beneath your window, sitting down like he paid rent there. Legs stretched out, hoodie bunched at his elbows, head tipped back against your siding. “Come on…” He whispered to himself.
He rubbed both hands over his face, dragging down like he could physically peel the stress off. “I’m gonna die out here,” he muttered. “She’s actually gonna let me freeze to death on suburban concrete. Damn.”
You muted the TV for two seconds—just long enough for him to perk up—before turning it right back on. He deflated so hard you could practically hear it.
“Wow,” he said to the night sky. “She’s evil. She’s actually evil. And she wonders why I lie awake at night thinking about—”
You whacked the window again with another pillow.
He jumped. “HEY—okay, okay! I take it back! You’re not evil, you’re just—” He paused, searching for something nice. “—temperamental.”
Another pillow hit the glass.
He held both hands up like he was being detained. “How many pillows do you have?!”
For a moment, he just sat there, breathing out shaky frustration, knees bent, arms draped loosely over them. The porch light cast him in soft gold, and for once he didn’t look like the loudmouthed, idiotic menace who’d started this whole mess.
He looked like someone who’d been losing his mind over you all night. And then—quietly, almost too quiet: “…Boo. Please let me fix this.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tapping anxiously.
“I didn’t tell them what you think I did,” he said, softer. “I swear. I didn’t make you look stupid. I didn’t—” His voice caught. “I didn’t disrespect you. Not the way you’re imagining.”
You froze behind the blinds.
He exhaled like the words tasted bitter. “I didn’t even tell them everything. Not the stuff that…mattered.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the roots.
“You think I’m out here playing around,” he said. “But I’m not. And I don’t know how to prove that when you won’t open the damn window.”
You didn’t move. He didn’t expect you to.
He tilted his head back against the siding again, eyes closing, breath leaving him in a quiet, frustrated laugh. “Fine,” he murmured. “I’ll sit out here all night if I have to.”
A pause.
“Knowing my dumbass? I probably will.”
Then, he heard movement from inside the house. Leaning into the siding did he lean up as his heart rate jumped. He stood up, brushing his sweats off as he walked around the front of the house. Only for him to be met with your mom—robe, bonnet, and sleepy-face in tow.
Riki froze mid-step, eyes widening like he’d just walked into a horror scene. “Uh…hi?” His voice cracked somewhere between sheepish and terrified.
Your mom blinked at him, hands on her hips, taking in the hoodie, the sweatpants, the midnight energy radiating off him like a storm cloud. “Riki Nishimura,” she said slowly, voice low but deadly calm. “What exactly are you doing on my lawn at—” she glanced at her phone—“almost two in the morning?”
“I—uh—” He raised his hands like a surrendering cartoon character. “I had to go to the store for Reo. I forgot my keys and now I’m locked out…” This wouldn’t be the first time he’s lied to your mom, it was just about whether she’d believe him. “I called him a few times and he’s not answering so…”
“So…you couldn’t go to either of the other boy’s houses? You had to come to my daughter’s?”
Riki’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He looked like a fish trying to talk its way out of being dinner. “Well—okay—hear me out,” he blurted, already panicking. “I would sleep at Shota’s but he snores insanely loud and the last time I did, he almost suffocated from the pillow I put over his face. And Leehan is entirely too particular about how I sleep like he wants the bed split right in—”
Your mom gave him a look so dry it could’ve dehydrated a cactus. “Inside. Now. Before I start asking real questions.”
Riki nodded so fast his hood nearly flew off. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”
But as he followed her toward the door, he couldn’t stop the tiny, hopeful glance he threw toward your window—praying you hadn’t heard any of that, even though he knew deep down…you definitely had.
He kicked his shoes off as he entered, “I promise I’ll be out—” he whispered.
“Shut up, you’re not a guest here. I love you, goodnight.” She yawned as she walked the opposite way to her room.
“Love you too, sleep well.” He whispered back.
Riki stood in the hallway like someone who’d just been adopted and arrested in the same breath. He watched your mom disappear down the hall, the soft shuffle of her slippers fading.
He took two small steps forward. Then froze when the floorboard under him squeaked loud enough to wake the dead. He saw your shadow moving around in your room from the small sliver of light that poked through the gap of the frame and door itself. His gut told him to speed up down the hall. To which he did—swiftly—before you could close the door on him.
But he beat you there, wedging himself in. “Gotcha.” He beamed, shimmying through as he closed it softly behind him.
“Are you crazy?” You whisper-yelled. “Coming into my house like this? Lying to my mom?!”
“I’m just as crazy as you are.” He unzipped his hoodie, tossing it onto the rack on your closet door. “Don’t act like you haven’t lied to Reo however many times—”
“That’s different. If we’re gonna be out late or something but—”
“Look, I don’t care about any of that. I came to fix things with you.” He stepped forward, ensuring you looked up at him. “Just hear me out…two minutes.” You studied him—hair messy from the wind, shirt rumpled, socks mismatched, eyes big and tired and a little frantic. You hated how familiar he looked in your room. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d slipped in after midnight.
“You get one.” You nod once. “And take off those dirty ass pants.” You sighed as you turned to your drawers. Scouring until you landed on a clean pair of black sweats.
With some rustling behind you, Riki stripped out of his pants. Revealing his black Calvin Klein boxers that you loved so much. That he knew you went crazy for.
“…Did you seriously just—?”
“What?” he said, way too innocent for someone in nothing but briefs in your bedroom at two in the morning. “You told me to take ‘em off.”
“I meant go change in the bathroom, you psychopath.”
He blinked. “Why would I walk all the way to the bathroom when your room is right here?”
You stared at him.
He stared back like this was the most logical sentence any human had ever spoken.
“Riki,” you said slowly, pointing the sweats at him like a weapon. “Put these on before I throw holy water at you.”
He snatched the pair from your hand with a tiny smirk—one he tried (and failed) to hide by looking down. “You always give me the soft ones,” he murmured, pulling them on.
“Well they’re yours…” you sigh, plopping right onto the edge of your bed.
He froze mid–pull, waistband halfway up his hips. “…What?”
You blinked at him. “What, what?”
He let the rest of the sweats snap into place, slow, like his brain was rebooting. “Did you just say they’re mine?”
You groaned, falling back on your palms. “Yes, Riki, congratulations, you own a pair of cotton-poly blend sweatpants. Don’t let it go to your head. So what? You’ve been here like a trillion times.”
But of course it did. You watched the shift happen in real time—his shoulders relaxing, his mouth tugging into that stupid boyish half‑smile he only ever got when he felt special.
He toed his discarded pants into a pile and padded over to you, the soft thud of his mismatched socks making him look criminally at-home in your space. “They’re mine,” he repeated, quieter this time. Like he’d just been handed a family heirloom instead of laundry.
You rolled your eyes. “Riki, don’t get sentimental, it’s literally the third time you’ve forgotten to take them back.”
He dropped down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “Still counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does,” he said, leaning back on his hands so his arm pressed along yours. “‘Cause that means when I come over…you expect me to stay.”
Your breath stuttered—just barely, but enough.
His voice softened. “And I know you’re pissed. And I know you’re pretending you’re not glad I’m here.” A beat. “But you said they’re mine.”
He nudged your knee with his. “Let me explain, Boo. Please.”
Your knee bounced, nerves bubbling up in the pit of your stomach as you looked down at your hands in your lap. “You promised, Riki. That you wouldn’t tell anyone what happened that night.”
Riki’s breath caught—not loud, not dramatic, just this tiny break in his chest like your words had clipped something vital. He didn’t move at first. Just stared at you, jaw set, eyes searching your profile like the truth might be written somewhere on your cheek. “I…I didn’t tell them in a malicious way.”
You turned your head as your anger bubbled up in your stomach. But he knew how to placate you. “No, no, no…listen. Look at me.” He gently grabbed your shoulders to turn you to face him. “Damn, you’re like a pitbull.”
You slapped his hands off your shoulders instantly. “Don’t call me a pitbull.”
“You are a pitbull,” he shot back, whisper‑yelling. “Small. Angry. Bites without warning.”
“I’m literally taller than you,” you snapped.
“You are not taller than—okay, you know what, that’s not the point.” He dragged a hand down his face, regrouping, then looked at you with that maddening mix of exasperation and adoration that made you want to smack him and kiss him in the same breath. “Listen to what I’m saying.”
You crossed your arms so hard your shoulders creaked.
He leaned forward, matching your intensity with his own. “I was just doing it for your protection.” He watched your face blend into confusion. “Not from the guys, from the guys my brother deals with.”
“Um…?”
“While you were gone, some of them were saying that they were gonna get at you when you came back. Obviously by that point, me and you already…” He trailed off. “And it was under wraps. But the way they were talking,” he shook his head, his tongue poking his cheek as he recalled the repulsive language. “I had to ‘claim’ you. Let them know you were mine.”
“I’m not an object, Riki.”
“I know, Boo. I know. I didn’t wanna put you in that position but I had to for the sake of those guys leaving you alone when you got back.”
Your brows pulled together, the heat in your chest shifting—still anger, but now tangled with something colder, sharper. “That’s not protection,” you said quietly.
Riki winced like you’d flicked him right in the soul. “I know. I know that. And if there was any other way—literally any—I would’ve taken it.”
You stared at him, trying to read past the excuses, past the dramatics, past the Riki-isms he wrapped himself in like bubble wrap. But his eyes weren’t dodging. Nor were they defensive. Just tired. And tense. And…a little fearful.
Your voice softened a notch. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
He huffed out a laugh—dry, humorless, one shoulder lifting. “Because you’d say exactly what you’re saying now. That I don’t get to ‘claim’ you. That you’re not a trophy. That you don’t need saving.” He added, “plus by that time you were at your retreat, didn’t have your phone. Was I supposed to send a smoke signal? Letter in a bottle?”
“It would’ve been appreciated.” You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I can’t stand you sometimes.”
Riki groaned, “dude, you’re so immature.”
“Me?!” You gasped, “I’m immature yet you fold under zero pressure and stutter when you lie?”
“Don’t do that. We’re grown now, I shouldn’t even be lying to anybody.”
“Right. So telling your groupies about our night of passion was sooo grown?”
He smiled, boyishly. “So you thought there was passion?” Slowing reaching his hand over to your waist before you smacked it away.
“No! I’m just saying that you’re a dick and never consider me for anything. Not me, Leehan, or Shota.”
Riki looked at you like you had three heads. “Are you—what are you talking about?”
You scoffed, “how did they even find out? Leehan told me that only he and Shota knew. Now you’re saying that—”
“I told them after the fact so they wouldn’t have to hear it from anybody else!” He stood up, “gosh, how low do you think I am? Like, do you really think I’m just some loser?”
Your head snapped up at his tone. He wasn’t yelling, but the hurt in his voice sliced sharp enough.
“Riki, that’s not—”
“No, because you’re talking like I’m out here giving press conferences about our business.” He pointed at himself, brows furrowed, genuinely offended. “You think I’d embarrass you like that? You think I’d embarrass myself like that?”
You opened your mouth, shut it, then crossed your arms tighter. “I think you do dumb things without thinking.”
His laugh was one sharp exhale. “Yeah? So do you.”
“That is not the point—”
“It is,” he cut in, stepping closer, eyes locked on yours with that frustrating intensity that made your stomach flip. “Because you’re acting like I’m some clown who doesn’t care about you. Like I’d run around bragging about us to look cool. That’s not me. That’s never been me.”
You faltered. Just a hiccup. Barely noticeable—except he noticed everything. “So telling people about us having sex on a summer night—”
“God, what do you not get?!” He put his hands out in frustration, “I didn’t tell anyone for fun! Or to lie on my dick—not that it was even a lie. I did it because otherwise, you’d have some weird ass guys pushing up on you and I can’t have that. For my sanity or your safety.”
You sighed dramatically, crossing your arms as you looked away from him. Turning your head away like you were a child.
“Look at me.” Riki said firmly but to no avail.
“Hm.” You shrugged as you crossed your legs. Your bare legs rubbing together over your checkered pajama shorts.
He shook his head. “Dude, you need to grow the fuck up and stop acting like a petulant child.”
You snapped your head back toward him so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. “Petulant?” you echoed, voice shooting up an octave. “Oh, wow. Big word. Did you eat a dictionary for breakfast or—”
“See?” he barked, throwing his hands up. “That! That right there!”
“What right there?!”
“You act like you don’t care but then you get mad like you care the most.” He pointed at you like you were a math problem he’d been failing for years. “You can’t even look at me without doing the dramatic little eye-roll-head-turn combo—”
“I do not—”
“You do,” he cut in, stepping forward, voice firm, eyes sharp. “You’re doing it right now.”
Your jaw dropped. “I am not—”
“You are,” he repeated, exasperated beyond mortal comprehension. “And it’s fine—like, it’s actually kinda cute when you’re not actively trying to ruin my life—but right now? Right now I need you to stop pretending you’re five years old and actually hear me.”
You scoffed so loud the walls probably shook. “Five years old? Riki, I swear to God—”
“No, seriously.” He crouched down a bit so he was more level with you, eyes narrowing just enough to make your pulse jump. “Grow. Up.”
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened.
You were halfway to telling him off when he added, annoyingly soft:
“I’m trying to talk to you. Not fight. Not yell. Talk. But you’re making it impossible.”
You blinked at him, chest tight, fury and embarrassment and something dangerously close to vulnerability twisting together.
His voice dropped low. “Stop looking away from me. I hate when you do that.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He leaned in, jaw tight. “And it makes me feel like you don’t care.”
That sentence froze you mid-breath. “…What?” you whispered.
Your heartbeat kicked up so loudly you were sure he could hear it. You sat there, arms crossed, shoulders tense, but eyes finally—finally—on him.
Riki looked back at you with an honesty that stripped every smart remark right off your tongue.
“Stop acting like I’m some villain,” he murmured. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.” He reached up, brushing a curl that fell out of your ponytail—behind your ear. “And with that funky ass temper, I can’t get a word in.”
You stare at him for a moment, tilting your chin to the side his hand was on as your eyes flit to the side. Like you were almost embarrassed to enjoy physical touch from him. “Riki.”
“Yes?”
“How long have you known me for? Do you remember?”
His hand froze halfway down your cheek like you’d just hit him with a pop quiz he absolutely did not study for.
“…Huh?” he blinked.
You sighed, leveling him with a stare that could’ve melted steel. “How long have you known me? Since when?”
Riki straightened, shoulders pulling back as if bracing for impact. “Since we were seven.”
“And in all those years,” you continued, voice low, “has there ever been a moment where my mouth hasn’t gotten me or one of us into some type of trouble?”
He pursed his lips in thought, his eyes seeming to search through the crevices of his brain. “Um…no not really.” Riki looked back from ages seven to twenty—trying to assess when your sharp tongue and impulsive actions hadn’t done them well.
“See?” You smiled in jest. “And you guys just accept me for me. This is who I am. And the fact that you hate it now all of a sudden—”
Riki rolls his eyes, frustration flaring in his chest. “No one’s saying we don’t accept you,” he retorts, his tone firm. “But just because we’ve put up with your bullshit for years doesn’t mean you can’t be held accountable for your words and actions. This isn’t some free pass to act like a brat whenever you want.”
“Yes it is!” You laugh, “because I accept you for all your shit. You’re like a diet version of me.”
Riki’s whole face twisted, “please. You’re the most mini-me of anyone I know.”
“Are you trying to son me?”
Riki laughed, leaning into you as he laid his head on your shoulder. “You are my son, you wanna be like me soooo bad.”
You shoved his forehead lightly. “Shut up.”
He blinked at you, affronted. “Don’t hit your daddy.”
You smacked him again.
“HEY—”
“Keep talking like that,” you warned, “and I’m putting you in the home early.”
He leaned back, pointing at you like you were the crazy one. “You can’t put me in the home. You’re my dependent.”
“Riki, I am older than you.”
“That’s what makes this so embarrassing for you,” he said, absolutely delighted with himself. “Imagine being older and still being my mini-me.”
Your eye twitched so violently he had to bite back a laugh.
Then he softened, just a little—head tilting, voice dropping. “Come on, Boo. I’m messing with you.” His shoulder nudged yours. “You know I don’t think of you like that.” Leaning his head back on your shoulder as he reached down for your hand. “I’m sorry, again.”
You tried—tried—to keep your spine stiff, arms crossed, jaw tight. But the second his fingers brushed yours, your whole posture betrayed you. Your hand didn’t curl around his, but it didn’t pull away either. It just…sat there. Suspiciously compliant.
You exhaled, staring at the wall like it might give you divine guidance.
“I know.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I messed up. I scared you. I made you feel played. I talked too much, I didn’t talk enough—I know.” He lifted his head just enough to look at you. “But I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear to God, Boo, every dumb thing I did was me trying to keep you safe.”
Your throat tightened despite every effort to swallow the feeling down.
“And I know you don’t like being protected,” he added, voice threading into something shy. “But you matter to me. In a way that makes it hard to think straight sometimes.”
Ever since you could remember meeting him, Riki had been your protector. And the worst part? He’d never even asked for the job.
He just…took it.
The kid who yanked you out of trouble before you even recognized it. The teenager who stood in front of you during every argument you started. The grown man now sitting in your bedroom at two in the damn morning, wearing your/his pants and looking at you like you were the whole reason he learned how to fight in the first place.
His knuckles grazed your jaw as he leaned in, nudging your cheek with his nose the way he always did when he was trying to make you smile. It worked—of course it did—your laugh spilling out small and helpless. “Your hero, your knight…” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. The smile that followed wasn’t cocky or teasing, but something almost…bashful. Like he couldn’t believe he’d earned the right to say it out loud. “Remember?”
But the word hero didn’t even begin to cover it.
He’d been a shadow and a shield, a tether and a torch—always one step ahead of whatever chaos you were about to fling yourself into. He carried your messes like they weighed nothing, shouldered your storms like they were summer rain. Half the time you wondered if he’d been assigned to you at birth, like some overworked guardian angel who accidentally got attached.
And you did remember. Every version of him. Every moment he’d stepped between you and the world like it was instinct. Like saving you was simply something he knew how to do—before he even knew how to save himself.
“Mhm,” you nodded—barely, quietly, like admitting it too loudly might crack something wide open between you.
His eyes softened even more at that tiny sound, as if your agreement carried an entire lifetime of shared secrets. His fingers slipped from your jaw to the side of your neck, feather-light, tracing the spot he always touched when he was trying to ground you…or ground himself. You could feel the tremor hiding in his thumb. He was steady for everyone else—impenetrable, unshakable—but with you? His armor always rattled just a little.
“Good,” he whispered, almost like he needed reassurance. Like he was afraid you might’ve forgotten who he’d always tried to be for you.
You hadn’t. God, you hadn’t.
If anything, the memories rose up all at once—him grabbing your sleeve before you stepped into the street at eight years old, him taking the blame for something you’d said at twelve, him pulling you behind him during the campfire argument at fifteen, eyes dark and jaw set like he’d burn the whole forest down before he let someone talk to you sideways. Him now, sitting inches from you, still trying to guard you from something invisible in the room.
He leaned in a little closer, forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice lowering like the hour demanded honesty. “I always wanted to be that for you,” he said. “Even when you didn’t need me to be.”
Your chest tightened—not painfully, but in that terrifyingly sweet way that told you he meant every word. “It’s not like I need you anyway…” You smile shyly as you nudge him with your elbow.
“No?” He laughed, “you don’t need me, Boo?” He beamed, wrapping his arms around your waist—pulling your side into him.
You shook your head, “nope—oof! Dude—”
Burying his face into your neck as he blew raspberries into it, he pulled you back flat onto the bed as you both laughed. You hit the mattress with a soft thud, breath catching in your throat before dissolving into helpless laughter. “Riki—stop—!” you wheezed, kicking a leg uselessly as he doubled down, arms locked around you like he’d been waiting all night for an excuse to tackle you.
He blew another loud, obnoxious raspberry against your neck, the kind that made your whole body jolt. “Don’t need me, huh?” he taunted, his words muffled against your skin as he climbed on top of you. “Say it again. Go ahead. I dare you.”
You tried to twist away, but his grip only tightened, warm and solid and stupidly comforting. “I don’t—!” you squeaked, halfway grinning, halfway choking on your own breath. “I don’t need—Riki, seriously—!”
“Liar,” he declared, without even giving you a chance to finish, pressing his forehead into the curve of your shoulder like you were some sort of pillow he owned. “Biggest liar I’ve ever met.”
You fought him for another second—maybe two—before your muscles gave out in that familiar way they always did around him. The laughter faded into a soft, breathless quiet, the room still humming with the echo of it. His weight settled over you, heavy and warm, like he’d decided this was his new home address.
He exhaled against your neck, softer this time—pressing a gentle kiss there before he raised his head. Nose to nose with you as you both smiled when your eyes met, his voice dropping back to something unbearably gentle. “How was school? You haven’t found my replacement yet, huh?”
“Nuh-uh…no one could ever replace you.”
His lips quirked—not into that smug little smirk he wore when he was winning, but something smaller, almost startled. Like he hadn’t expected you to hand him an answer that soft, that honest, without putting up some kind of fight first.
His fingers brushed your waist, thumb tracing slow, unconscious circles like he was memorizing the shape of you. “Yeah?” he murmured, the word barely more than a breath. “You saying I’m…irreplaceable?”
You rolled your eyes, but it came out ruined—too fond, too warm. “That’s literally what ‘no one could ever replace you’ means.”
His thumb paused mid-circle on your waist, the warmth of his touch lingering like a question he was scared to ask out loud.
“Yeah, but…” he said slowly, eyes flicking over your face as if trying to read something between your lashes. “You say stuff like that and then pretend we’re just—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Nothing.”
Your breath caught. Not because he was wrong, but because he was painfully, dangerously right. “We are nothing,” you said a little too quickly, a little too defensively. “Like—we have to be. You know how it’d look if anyone found out.”
Riki stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was green. “How it’d look to who? Our friends?”
“Yes!” You sat up slightly, annoyed that he wasn’t getting it. “If they think I’m sneaking around with you, it’s gonna make everything weird. I don’t want Leehan or Shota or anybody else thinking there’s…a thing. I don’t want a rift.”
“A rift,” he repeated, deadpan. “You think you and me laughing at two in the morning in your bed is gonna break up the Fantastic Four?”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.” He tugged you a tiny bit closer by your hip, eyes locked on yours. “Boo, we’ve gotten through worse. They’re not gonna fall apart because we—” He hesitated, jaw working. “—because we care about each other differently now.”
You swallowed hard, your voice smaller now. “I just don’t want them picking sides.”
His expression softened like melting wax. He leaned his forehead to yours again, gentler this time. “No one’s picking sides. Not unless you start picking fights again, and even then I’m still betting on you.”
You snorted, the tension easing just an inch.
He took the opportunity, slipping a hand up your back, grounding you with his warmth. “Look,” he murmured, “I get not wanting to make waves. I do. But don’t pretend this is nothing just to keep the peace.”
Your heartbeat thudded once, sharp and loud.
“Because it’s not nothing,” he whispered. “Not to me.”
“I know, Riki…Just—please?” You bring your hand up to his cheek, brushing his chiseled jaw. Though he shook his head slowly with soft eyes, you whispered—lips brushing against his as you mumbled. “Please, for me? Please…?”
His breath hitched the second your lips grazed his—soft enough to deny, close enough to ruin him. His eyes fluttered half-shut, like he couldn’t decide whether to lean in or back away before he did something stupid. “Baby…” His voice was barely sound now, more exhale than words. You felt it against your mouth, warm and shaky. “You know I’d do anything you asked.”
You nudged closer—not kissing him, not quite, just letting the shape of him press into the shape of you. Your palm was warm on his jaw, your thumb sweeping the curve of his cheekbone. His breath stuttered again. “But you’re asking me to pretend,” he murmured, eyes opening fully. “To pretend I don’t…feel this. With you. About you.”
Your fingers flexed at his skin, and he shivered.
“I’m not asking you to pretend,” you whispered back. “I’m just asking you to help me protect what we already have. Before anyone else gets involved. Before it turns into drama or sides or expectations. I just…want us. Quietly. Carefully.”
His jaw clenched under your hand—less anger, more restraint. The kind he only ever showed with you.
“And if I say yes,” he asked, voice low, “does that mean I only get you in moments like this? When the door’s closed and everyone’s asleep?”
Your throat bobbed.
“If that’s what it takes to make sure that we don’t ruin our group.” you whispered.
For a beat, he didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you, his forehead pressing to yours like he was steadying himself on the only thing that hadn’t ever failed him.
Then he exhaled, long and quiet, his hand sliding from your back to cradle the side of your neck. “Fine,” he murmured. “For you.” His nose brushed yours, gentle, aching. “But don’t ask me to act like you don’t mean something to me. Even if no one else gets to know yet.”
His thumb traced your throat, slow, deliberate. “I can’t fake that. Not even for you.”
—
The next morning
—
“Cousin?!” Leehan called out to his mom as she moved through the kitchen. “What cousin?!”
Mrs. Kim sighed as she chopped up vegetables, using the knife as a pointer to gesture to the basket of laundry on the counter that she needed her son to fold. “My friend from high school, Alexa, is sending her daughter to go to school here.”
With a roll of the eye, “school or university? Neither start for another month and a half.” He goes to fold some of the shirts in the basket. Tucking in the small ones of his younger brother and sister.
“She got into USC. I thought she could stay here, hang out with you and your friends. Just to get acclimated.” She says, looking down as she chops up a carrot. “Her mom’s staying back in Honduras where they live now and she just wanted to get out. See the world other than where she’s from. You get it.”
Leehan sighed, “we don’t need another buddy; and why do we need another person in here? It’s already crowded as is.” His little siblings breeze past him, pushing him into the counter as they giggle—running amok in the kitchen and living room.
Mrs. Kim slammed the knife down with a sneer. “No playing in the living room! Go in the yard!”
The two little ones scattered instantly, shrieking as they bolted for the back door. Leehan winced, rubbing the spot on his hip where a rogue elbow had caught him. “See?” he muttered. “Chaos. Pure chaos. And you wanna add another college student into this circus?”
His mom didn’t even look up as she slid the carrots into a bowl. “She’s not just any college student. She’s Alexa’s daughter. And she’s never lived away from home before. She’ll need support.”
“Support,” he echoed flatly. “Right. And by support you mean me.”
Mrs. Kim shot him a look that could level a grown man. “I mean all of us. But especially you. You’re the oldest. Responsible. Reliable.”
He blinked. “Mom, you asked me to unclog the shower last week and I nearly passed out from the smell.”
“Exactly,” she said, patting his cheek. “Builds character.”
He groaned into the laundry basket. “And what’s her name?” he asked, voice muffled in defeat.
“Xiomara.”
Leehan lifted his head like she’d just announced they were adopting a Bengal tiger. “Xiomara?” he repeated, slowly, like the name itself was a threat. “Mom, that sounds like a girl who walks into a room and immediately ruins my life.”
Mrs. Kim swatted his arm with a dish towel. “She’s very sweet!”
“That’s what people said about Riki before he started bossing me around,” he muttered.
From outside, one of his little siblings shrieked triumphantly, followed by a loud thump. Mrs. Kim didn’t even flinch. “You’ll take her around, introduce her to your friends, show her the area—”
“Mom.”
“—help her move in, make sure she’s eating—”
“Mom.”
“—maybe drive her to orientation—”
“Mom!”
Finally, she looked up.
“What?”
“I’m not a babysitter,” he huffed. “I barely babysit them.” He pointed out the window where one of the kids was trying to climb the garden hose like it was a rope in gym class.
Mrs. Kim clicked her tongue as she went to chop some garlic. “She’s not a baby. She’s eighteen.”
Leehan’s soul left his body. “EIGHT—Mom, that’s literally barely legal! I can’t be seen hanging out with a kid! I’m twenty! People will think I’m recruiting!”
Mrs. Kim pursed her lips, squinting her eyes as she clutched the knife tighter in her hands. No words were spoken as she tapped the surface slowly.
Leehan froze.
Not because she looked angry—but because that tap? That knife-tap? That was the “choose your next words like your life depends on it” tap.
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay. Alright. That came out wrong.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He gulped.
“What I meant,” he corrected quickly, “was that—uh—eighteen is…young. Very young. Like ‘still doesn’t know which side of the street has the bus stop’ young.”
His mother didn’t blink. “Continue.”
“And!” he added, voice cracking like a man under interrogation, “—and I am not qualified for mentorship. I’m barely feeding myself on time. I had cereal for dinner yesterday.”
“That’s because you refused to eat the stew I made.”
“It had mushrooms!”
Tap. Tap.
He winced.
Mrs. Kim sighed through her nose, the way women do when they’ve raised three children, a husband, and apparently now one extra stray. “She is not a kid. She is a guest. A guest who will be living under my roof. Which means she will be treated like family.”
Leehan nodded rapidly. “Right. Family. Like a sibling.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Perfect,” he said.
A beat.
“Except,” she raised a brow, “you will not treat her like you treat your siblings.”
He blinked. “Why not?”
“Because you terrorize them.”
“I don’t.” He shakes his head.
“I’m not arguing with you, son.”
“Fine.” He nods in relent. “So…where’s she gonna sleep?”
“Your room.”
The words landed like a brick to the skull.
Leehan straightened slowly, arms going stiff at his sides. “My…room,” he repeated, making sure he hadn’t misheard. “As in—my room, where I sleep. Where my stuff lives. Where I—exist.”
“Yes,” his mother said simply, drying her hands on a towel. “She needs a space that’s clean and quiet. And yours is the only one that makes sense.”
He stared at her, chest tight. “Mom, my room is my only space. The only place in this entire house that’s not—” he gestured around at the chaos, the abandoned toys, the scribbles on the fridge, the sticky handprints on the cupboards— “that.”
“I know,” she said, and her voice wasn’t sharp this time. It was steady. Unmoving. “Which is why I’m trusting you with this.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. The weight behind her words was unmistakable.
“She’s coming here alone,” Mrs. Kim continued softly. “No family. No support system. No familiarity. She’s walking into a country she doesn’t know, a language she barely uses, a school she’s hardly seen. She’s still a child to her mother, no matter how old she is.”
Leehan’s breath stalled.
“She needs safety,” she said. “And stability. She needs someone who won’t overwhelm her or talk down to her. At least give her sympathy.”
He pressed his lips together, throat tightening.
“And you,” she added, looking him in the eyes now, “are the one I trust the most to give her that. Not because you’re perfect. But because you’re my son and I raised you to take care of people always.”
Silence.
A thick, heavy silence.
He let out a slow breath. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll move my things.”
Mrs. Kim nodded, relieved—but not triumphant. “Thank you.”
He stared at the floor, at the laundry basket, at nothing in particular.
“…What’s she like?” he asked after a moment. Not annoyed. Not sarcastic. Just…trying to understand the person stepping into his life.
His mom paused, thinking. “Smart,” she said. “Kind. Quiet. More observant than she lets on. But she's a nice girl, you guys would like her.”
He nodded once.
Then again.
“Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll be good to her.”
“I know you will.”
A beat passed—the kind that settles into the air, makes everything feel more real.
“What time does her flight get in?” he asked.
“One hour.”
His eyes widened. “Mom—”
“Go,” she said, waving him off. “Take the car, I’ll move your stuff.”
He grabbed his keys, heart pounding as he jogged toward the door.
And as he makes his way out to the beat up driveway, he comes across you walking up his porch. He steps back, soft laughter as he puts his hands up in defense. “Woah…gonna bite my head off, Chihuahua?”
“Shut up,” you cross your arms—rolling your eyes as you resist a laugh. “I left my bag here yesterday. I’ve come to retrieve it.”
He nods affirmatively, brushing past you as he gently yanks a curl of yours on his way down the steps. “It’s in my closet.”
You reached down to swat his arm. “Where you going?”
He turns back, one foot already on the next step, breath still a little fast from the sprint out of the house. The sunlight catches on his face, softening everything he’s trying so hard to keep steady.
“Airport,” he says simply.
Your brows pull together. “Now?”
He huffs—short, almost incredulous—as if he just realized the timing doesn’t make any damn sense either. “Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Apparently I’m a morning person now.”
You blink at him. “Since when?”
“Since today,” he says, dead serious.
There’s no joke behind it. No smirk. He’s standing there looking wired, focused, too awake for someone who hasn’t even had breakfast yet.
You tilt your head, studying him. Something in his voice is different—quieter, heavier. “Family?”
He hesitates. Just long enough for the truth to flash across his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Kind of.”
“Can I ride with you?” You shrug, “I’m bored and I have literally nothing else to do.”
He jerks his chin toward the driveway, already moving, steps quick and purposeful. You follow him down the porch, your shoulder brushing his for half a second—a tiny contact, but he feels it. You can tell by the way his breath stutters before he masks it. Annoyance but patient in some way.
The car beeps unlocked.
He opens the passenger door for you without a word. You lean against the door before you sit, preparing to ask him something. But as you do, a voice calls out:
“Oi! Where are you two off to?”
You both turn to see Shota coming from across the street—backpack in tow as he bounces over. His dyed, blond hair shining in the beaming sun. “You two know I have attachment issues.”
You laugh softly as you brush your hair off your shoulder. “Ask your best friend, his mood is shot.”
Leehan sighed, “my mood isn’t anything, Bun—I just have to go and you’re making me late.”
“Late for what?!” Another voice calls across the street.
It was weird, yet convenient how your guys’ houses were lined up. The best way to describe it would be akin to a square and its vertices. Right beside Leehan was your house. Directly parallel to you was Riki, then parallel to Leehan was Shota.
Riki jogs down his driveway, one hand raking through his hair, the other shoving his keys into his pocket like he’s already annoyed at the world and hasn’t even reached the sidewalk yet.
He eyes the three of you gathered around Leehan’s half-opened car door. “What’s happening?” he asks, breath a little uneven like he’d been rushing.
Shota throws his hands up dramatically. “A betrayal is happening. They were about to leave me. Again.”
Leehan’s jaw flexes. “No one’s betraying anyone. I just have somewhere to be.”
Riki’s gaze flicks to you, quick and sharp, then to Leehan—reading the tension instantly. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Leehan mutters.
You answer for him. “He’s lying. Obviously. He opened the car door for me without calling me a dickhead. I’m concerned.”
Shota gasps like you’ve announced a national emergency. “Oh that’s new.”
Leehan drags a hand down his face. “Can you three—just this once—not be—”
“Entertaining?” Shota offers.
“Observant?” Riki adds.
“Inconveniencing?” you finish.
He looks heavenward, praying for strength. Then he jerks his thumb at the car. “Just get in. All of you.”
“Yay!” You and Shota cheered simultaneously. Riki smiled softly as he opened the back passenger door for the older guy to get in.
Shota slid in the backseat, putting his backpack down by his feet—settling into the seat as he fanned himself. “Can you turn the AC on? It’s like a toaster oven in here.”
Leehan makes his way around the van. “The car’s not even on yet, genius.”
Riki snorts, “move over,” he tapped the top of the van as he waited for Shota to shimmy to the other side. But before he could even put his leg in, a deep, raspy voice—diagonal from the driveway called out for him. “Riki!”
All four of your guys’ attention went in the direction of the sound. The birds chirped over the white noise of the block as somehow the sky clouded over. Reo.
You sighed, rolling your eyes as you turned your back again. Leaning against the car with your arms crossed.
Reo was already discussed previously. Not in any depth anyway because as much as he seemed to matter to Riki—he mattered to you as well.
As an enemy.
As an older brother, though, he was Riki’s sole caregiver and provider amidst their parents not being around. While Reo had to juggle being fifteen and taking care of his ten year old brother, he ensured that Riki was in school, was fed, and had what he needed to essentially have a normal childhood just as anyone else.
However, as Riki grew and started to demand (not literally, but metaphorically) the presence of their mom and dad—Reo didn’t know how to handle it. Couldn’t fathom or configure the idea of wearing so many different hats at once. Mom, dad, brother, nurse, personal wallet, cheerleader, chauffeur until Riki was sixteen, the list goes on.
Leehan, Shota, and you had always had the luxury of support by parental figures—something Riki didn’t have—but it was always afforded to him. Never did any of your parents turn him or Reo away for anything because they knew how hard their circumstances were. But no one dared to call social services because it meant that both boys would be lost in the abyss of the American foster care system and of course, everyone has heard such great things about what happens there.
If either of them needed food because Reo’s check didn’t clear—they got it. Christmas gifts. Clothes. Hot water. Anything in the world, those boys had it as long as you, Shota, and Leehan did.
But once Reo graduated high school (with a C average, just by the skin of his teeth)—he knew to follow in the legacy that his father had left him with—R12. Leaving him to stay in Freeridge and get Riki through middle school, high school, and everything else.
And things seemed fine. Reo was going to work. Participating in the gang dealings that both boys seemed to be familiar with but the older they got, the more the cracks started to show.
Riki learned how to be multiple people at once—a friend, support system, an advocate for all three of you…and Reo’s little brother, the kid everyone in R12 kept an eye on because Reo would set the whole block on fire if anything happened to him.
But it was a lot more complex than that. Reo ensured Riki wasn’t touched, ensuring he didn’t lose his respect. But something shifted once Riki turned fifteen.
He stopped caring about the sanctity of Riki’s youth. Disregarded everything that mattered when it came to his brother.
Riki had dreams. Ones that seemed small to others but too big for Freeridge.
And it was simple: make it out.
Since he was a kid, Riki had wished upon a star, tossed a coin into a fountain, closed his eyes extra hard during every birthday wish, wrote a million times under his pillow—for his entire life—the same wish.
To leave.
Not to abandon, not to forget—just to escape the gravity of a place that had never loved him gently. Riki wanted sunlight without bars across it, air without someone else’s name on it, choices that weren’t choreographed by a gang legacy he never asked to inherit.
Reo saw that dream as an insult.
Because to him, leaving meant rejecting the only thing he had ever been good at. The only thing that kept a roof over their heads. The only thing that made him valuable in a world that chewed him up at fifteen and spit him out as a man.
So when Riki talked about getting out—going to college, traveling, anything that didn’t involve the R12 sign—Reo didn’t hear hope. Just betrayal.
And that’s when the shift happened. No more rides to practice. No more checking if Riki ate. No more showing up to school events pretending he wasn’t bone-tired.
Instead—cold orders. Sharp warnings. A hardness that didn’t belong in a home but lived there anyway.
Reo stopped seeing Riki as a kid. Stopped seeing him as a brother. Started seeing him as a liability—someone who wanted to run from the very life Reo had bled to keep intact for him.
Riki never said it out loud, not to you, not to anyone. But every time Reo’s voice cut through the street, every time those R12 men watched him too closely, every time his shoulders went rigid—
You could tell. Because you knew these three like yourself. If you were an impulsive, neurotic, hotheaded chihuahua then Leehan was a pressured, ticking time bomb with oldest sibling syndrome. Shota was a mildly deluded individual that blocked out the negativity in the world by living by his rules. Like Riki was a hurricane contained in a bottle—soft and mesmerizing one moment, destructive and untamable the next. He absorbed everything around him—the chaos, the expectations, the danger—and carried it with a grace that no one else could sustain. But inside, that wish to escape, to be free of Freeridge and the shadows of R12, was a constant pressure, a weight that bent him without breaking him.
And you could see it in the way he flinched when Reo’s name was mentioned, in the subtle tension in his shoulders when someone lingered too long on the block, in the way he smiled a little too hard, laughed a little too loud, just to convince himself he was still okay.
He was caught between worlds: the world he wanted, and the world that had claimed him before he even knew how to fight for himself. And you—well, you understood that storm better than anyone.
The older brother in question jogged across the street. His gaze never left his little brother the whole time. When he finally made it to the driveway, Reo—now twenty-five—stood before you and everyone.
Him and Riki were exactly the same height. A nice six foot one. Reo’s presence hit like a wall, all angles and edges and deliberate weight. His hair, dark and cropped close on the sides, caught the sun in streaks of bronze where it had faded at the tips. His jaw was sharp, square, defined, with the faintest shadow of stubble that made him look older than his twenty-five years. Eyes like storm clouds—a very dark brown—hovered between calculating and exhausted, the kind of eyes that had seen too much too young.
Broad shoulders, strong arms, and a chest that filled out his fitted shirt made him look like he could carry the weight of the street on his back. Even his stance—feet planted just so, fists loose but ready—spoke of someone who had fought to keep everything together, someone who moved with both authority and quiet warning. Every detail about him—the set of his brow, the crease at the corner of his mouth, the way his gaze flicked to Riki first—was a reminder that he wasn’t just an older brother. He was a force.
But he wasn’t impolite.
He scanned the rest of you three with a masked smile. Bending down slightly, poking his head into the van—he caught Shota’s view. “Hi, Shota.”
The guy nodded silently, waving his hand as he put one of his wired earbuds in.
“Donghyun,” he nodded as he looked at Leehan—who leaned against the car with his hands and opened his palm. Hardly smiling but just enough to acknowledge the elder.
Then finally, his eyes fell to you. More like your side profile as you refused to even look at him. The last time you laid eyes on him was the day you left for college—so nearly a year ago. You hadn’t visited during breaks, money was too tight for you to come back and forth.
Watching him stand on the sidewalk beside his younger brother as the three of you all drove onto the next part of your lives was probably the most sadistic thing you’ve seen out of him. The memory was like a picture in your mind. Him, resting a hand on Riki’s shoulder as their eyes hadn’t left you. Like he was reminding him of what he never wanted to come to fruition for Riki.
“Bunnyboo…” he called out with a smile. “You look beautiful. I’ve missed you.”
You stiffened at the voice, the familiar tone threading through the warm morning air, carrying all the weight of his presence. That smile—something in it was the same as before, teasing yet measured, like he had rehearsed it a thousand times to keep control—but there was an undercurrent there, an edge of something almost vulnerable, something carefully tucked beneath the force of his usual armor.
“Hm.” You inhaled, arms tightening as you crossed them.
He probed on though, “you’ve grown. You still carry your Bratz dolls in your backpack?”
You scoff, smacking your teeth. “That was like fifteen years ago.”
Reo chuckled, a low, controlled sound that somehow carried both amusement and a trace of disbelief. “That long, huh? I feel like that’s the kind of thing that sticks with you forever,” he said, eyes flicking briefly to the gold, nameplate necklace with your actual name on it. The one you wore every single day since you were a kid. There was a softness in that look, fleeting, but it was there—an acknowledgment of the person you were then, the person you’d become.
You rolled your eyes, brushing a curl behind your ear. “Yeah, well, some of us grow up,” you said, trying for a casual tone, though your voice carried just enough bite to hint that you weren’t entirely relaxed.
He took your jab and let it roll down his back. His tongue poked his cheek as he turned to Riki. “We got business.”
Riki’s shoulders tensed, the familiar flicker of unease crossing his features. “Business? Now? At nine in the morning?” His voice carried a note of incredulity that didn’t quite mask the edge of confusion.
Reo didn’t look at him, didn’t even blink. His gaze was fixed, sharp, deliberate, scanning the block like he already knew every corner, every potential obstacle. “Now,” he said again, voice low but iron-strong. “We move fast, or it’s done before it even starts.”
You leaned back slightly against the car, arms still crossed, observing the quiet, absolute command in his posture. Every movement was deliberate, economical—Reo didn’t waste energy on theatrics. Even the way he stood beside Riki, that protective shadow, made your stomach knot. The tension wasn’t just between the brothers—it radiated outward, threading through the air around everyone else, a subtle, undeniable warning.
Riki exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Okay…” He turned to the three of you with a look of frustration. “I’ll see y’all when you get back.”
You watched him hesitate for a moment, shoulders stiff, jaw tight, before he finally gave a small nod. “Be careful,” you muttered under your breath but loud enough for him to catch.
Reo’s eyes flicked toward you, the storm behind them softening just a fraction, like he recognized the weight of your gaze. No words, just a subtle tilt of his head—a silent acknowledgment. Then he turned, and with practiced precision, started walking down the street, Riki falling into step beside him like a shadow, smaller but unwilling to be left behind.
The van sat there idling, warm in the morning sun. You pressed your palms into each, trying to calm the sudden tightness in your chest. The air seemed heavier, charged, as if the space around them carried all the years of responsibility, anger, and unspoken plights between the brothers.
Shota leaned back against the seat, muttering, “Damn. That’s…intense.”
Leehan just shook his head, lips pressed together. “Yeah. That’s Reo for you. Always been that way.”
You stayed quiet, watching the figures recede, knowing that once they disappeared around the corner, the street would feel smaller—and emptier—but the echo of their presence would linger, a quiet warning you couldn’t ignore.
—
The drive south to LAX was relaxing, you on the aux as some music played comfortably. As Leehan pushed the van down the freeway, you hummed along to the music as you watched the world pass you by.
But of course, silence was always short-lived as it pertained to your friends. “So, I assume you and Riki are together again?”
You turned to him with a flabbergasted, yet offended expression. “I’m sorry?”
His eyes widened, tightening on the steering wheel. “I said, ‘I assume you and Riki are hanging out together again?”
“Oh…”
“...as in, you guys aren’t fighting anymore?” He leaned back as he signaled to move to another lane.
“Oh…yeah.” You nodded as your heart rate simmered a little. “Yeah, we squashed it.”
“So what happened?” He said absentmindedly as he turned the music down a little so he could hear you properly.
You gulp, keeping your eyes looking out of the window. “Nothing. We just agreed to…chill, you know. No beef.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Leehan laughed, “you were at his throat less than a day ago and now things are just squashed? What actually happened between you guys? Is what he said true or not?”
This was the thing you hated about lying: the guilt of it. But the fact that you had to think of a lie, say it convincingly, then remember it was entirely too stressful.
Riki didn’t even want to keep this up. He wanted to show you off, hold your hand walking down the street, kiss you whenever he felt like. Not in the dark or behind closed doors within the confines of your rooms or the city’s outskirts. But of course, he was a simple man—and entirely too easy. Whatever it took to be with you, he’d do it.
But your fear of commitment and judgment superseded anything that either of you could want.
“No, we didn’t sleep together.” You said with finality. “He just said that because some of the idiotic R12 members were talking about getting at me. So he—” You used air quotes, “‘put a claim on me’ so that they wouldn’t try anything.”
“So why didn’t he tell us that he did that?”
You somehow reached a flow state. “Because he knows how you two run your fat mouths. It’s just better if everyone thinks the same thing, I guess. That way he doesn’t have to remember who knows what.”
Leehan’s brow arched so high it was nearly touching his hairline. “Mhm. Right. Because he’s soooo organized like that.”
You shot him a glare sharp enough to slice bread. “Can you just drive?”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes still on you. “Nah, because something’s not adding up. Riki said one thing. Shota and I heard another. You acted one way. And now this?” He motioned in a circle at your whole existence. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar,” you snapped.
“So you admit that you’re lying?”
You groaned, sliding lower into your seat until you were practically melting into the upholstery. The anxiety sat in your chest like a cinder block. Keeping a secret relationship hidden from a man like Leehan—who was basically a human lie detector fused with a nosy aunt—felt like trying to hide a fireworks show behind a napkin.
And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong. Your lies were getting thinner, shakier, stitched together by panic. You felt the guilt creeping up your throat—warm, prickly, accusing.
Leehan glanced at you. His voice softened just enough to unsettle you. “Are you scared of him?”
You blinked. “What? Who?”
“Reo.”
You laughed, actually laughed at how off he was. “Please, that dickhead has nothing to do with this.” You folded your hands over your stomach as you crossed your legs in an effort to warm them from the blasting air conditioner. “He doesn’t scare shit over here.”
“So what are you hiding and why lie about it?”
“Oh my god,” you groaned. “Bitch you are so fucking nosey!”
Leehan grinned like a cat who’d finally cornered a mouse. “Yeah. And?”
“And mind your damn business!”
“It is my business,” he argued, turning onto the main road like he wasn’t detonating your blood pressure. “Because every time you lie, Riki acts weird, and when Riki acts weird, I get dragged into some emotional bullshit I didn’t ask for.”
You clutched your chest dramatically. “So now I’m inconveniencing you?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even hesitate. “My chakras are weighed down.”
You stared at him. “You don’t even know what chakras are.”
“I know yours are clogged with secrets.”
You slapped his arm—not hard, but enough to make him jerk the wheel a little. “Leehan!”
“Hey! Assaulting the driver is crazy.”
“Being the IRS of my personal life is crazy.”
He snorted, glancing over at you for half a second. “So you admit there’s something to tax?”
Your jaw dropped. “I didn’t say that!”
“You said it with your face.”
“Shut up.”
He hummed, smug, fingers tapping the wheel like he’d solved a crime. “One day, you’re gonna tell me.”
“One day,” you shot back, “I’m gonna push you out of a moving vehicle.”
“Good,” he said, nodding. “Maybe the fall will knock the truth loose.”
“I wish death on you. A slow, agonizing death. But until then,” you sighed. “Which terminal are we headed to?” You gestured ahead to the iconic big white letters that indicated your arrival.
“Terminal B…” Leehan sighed as he leaned forward, inspecting the bustling airport and the pedestrians making their ways through.
You reached behind you to grab Shota’s backpack, shuffling through it for his bag of sour gummy worms. The owner of said bag extended his hand for you to give him some, not even speaking because he had his own music playing.
You dropped a few gummy worms into Shota’s waiting palm, then tore one in half with your teeth like a feral squirrel. “Thank you for your service,” you mumbled around the candy.
Shota gave you a thumbs-up without looking up, completely zoned out to whatever playlist he lived on. You swore the guy could sleep through a tornado but wake up instantly if someone opened a bag of snacks within a five-mile radius.
Leehan eased the car into the arrival lane, glaring at the chaos like it personally offended him. “Why are airports always like fever dreams?” he muttered. “Every time I come here, I lose five years of my life.”
“Who are we scooping anyway?” You say through a mouthful of candy. “An uncle or some shit?”
“No, my cousin—well…she’s not blood but…” He shrugs as he grabs a gummy from the bag.
You snorted, “I got you, that’s just how people of color work, I guess. Everyone’s a cousin.”
He nodded, “yeah, but this is my first time meeting her. Her mom and my mom went to high school together way back when. Then they moved and shit, now her daughter is going to uni here in the States. Or…will be.”
You furrowed your brows inquisitively, “where are they from?”
“Honduras.”
Your brows lifted in surprise as a smile hit your face. “Oh snap, look at Mrs. Kim knowing people. Mrs. Worldwide.”
Leehan snorted, shaking his head. “Please don’t gas her up like that. She already thinks she’s Pitbull.”
You laughed, leaning back in your seat. “No, because I know she be telling people she’s multicultural just for the fun of it.”
“She does,” he said flatly. “She told her nail tech last week she ‘turns up’ when she listens to reggaetón. Like who says that anymore?”
You slapped his arm. “Shut UP.”
He groaned. “I was like, Mom…you don’t even know who Bad Bunny is.”
Shota, still munching gummies with one earbud in, glanced up. “She thought his name was Benny.”
You wheezed. “Isn’t his name Benito? She was close.”
“Not the point.” Shota smiled, taking another gummy worm. “I just don’t get how…”
Shota’s joke faded into the background, but you barely heard it. Something in your chest shifted—tightened—like a knot being pulled slowly, deliberately, until it demanded to be acknowledged. Everything seemed like white noise.
You watched the crowds outside the car, people dragging luggage, hugging relatives, starting trips, ending them. Moving. Living. And it hit you—hard—that Riki should’ve been here. Should’ve been laughing with you all. Complaining about the LA traffic. Stealing Shota’s gummies and flicking his ear just because he could.
He should’ve been in this moment.
But he wasn’t. Because he was stuck.
Your fingers curled around the bag of candy, knuckles whitening. The thought rose before you could stop it, blooming sharp and aching in your chest. You didn’t say anything at first—just let the idea sit there, heavy, terrifying, obvious.
You didn’t even realize you’d spoken until you heard your own voice.
“…I want him out.”
Leehan looked over. “Who?”
“Wait, I didn’t even do anything…” Shota said with a frown.
You kept your eyes straight ahead. If you looked at either of them, you’d talk yourself out of it. “Riki. I want him out of R12.”
Shota sat up, the surprise on his face softening into something more careful. No jokes this time. No easy shrug.
The words kept coming, quiet but sure, like you’d been holding them back for years.
“I keep thinking,” you said, voice low, “about all the things he’s missing. All the things he’ll keep missing because Reo won’t let him go.” You shook your head slightly. “I can’t stand the idea of him still being there while the rest of us get to…grow. Move forward. Be young. Be stupid. Be normal.”
Leehan’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t interrupt. Neither did Shota.
“He had the best grades out of all of us in school. Joined clubs, made friends, community service, everything. All down the drain because his selfish older brother couldn’t see past Freeridge. But it’s time for me to be selfish, guys, because I want more. For him.”
You swallowed hard. “And I don’t know…maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s impossible, but I just—” you exhaled shakily. “I keep thinking there has to be a way to get him out. Really out. A way to give him a chance at the life he keeps pretending he doesn’t want.”
Shota let out a slow breath through his nose, like he was trying to process ten different emotions at once. “You’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he murmured.
You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.
Because once the thought crawled into your chest, it refused to leave—this stubborn, aching truth that wouldn’t unclench its grip. Riki laughing on a couch that wasn’t surrounded by lookouts. Riki sleeping without one eye open. Riki showing up to dumb little hangouts like this one, rolling his eyes, complaining about the snacks. Riki choosing things instead of surviving them.
You blinked hard. “I hate that I’m starting to picture him as a memory while I’m still alive.”
Shota’s jaw flexed. Leehan’s stare stayed glued to the road, but his knuckles had gone white.
“He’s not gone,” Leehan said quietly.
“No,” you agreed, throat tight, “but you know how that life is. You either end up in prison, dead, or both. And I don’t even want to think about either.”
Shota shifted, like the words physically hit him. “Don’t say that,” he muttered, but it wasn't a reprimand—it was fear.
You stared down at your hands. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Neither of them did.
The signs passed, blocking the sun for a moment—casting a shadow across the windshield, washing the car in gold every few seconds. Each flash made the ache in your chest feel sharper, more real, like the world itself was trying to illuminate a truth you’d been avoiding.
“I keep replaying stupid things,” you said softly. “Like him talking about wanting to visit a college campus. Or saying he wanted to see snow for the first time. Or—” your breath trembled, “—how he used to say he wanted to get out of Freeridge before he turned twenty-one.” You swallowed again, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “He says it like a joke now. Like something he already accepted he’ll never have.”
Shota looked out his window, voice barely above a whisper. “He stopped talking about the future altogether.”
That got you. A quiet, painful exhale left your lungs. “Exactly,” you murmured. “It’s like he’s already grieving a life he hasn’t even lived.”
Leehan finally spoke, low and certain. “Then we don’t let that happen.”
You turned your head, heart thudding. He wasn’t saying it like a fantasy. He was saying it like a plan.
“We figure out a way,” he continued, eyes still on the road but voice steady, “to give him a real shot. A clean break. Something he can’t walk away from, even if he tries.”
✰ welcome to my personal studio lot—where every show i love gets rewritten, remixed, and reborn as its own little story. this series is a love letter to the comfort shows and films that raised me, the ones that stuck with me, and the characters i always wished i could write into a scene.
✰ each fic in this collection lives inside the world of a medium, but never as a copy-paste. all inspired by the original, but told completely my way.
✰ you don’t need to have watched a single show/film here to follow along, but if you have—it’s like watching the director’s cut.
roll out the red carpet. grab your popcorn. wander the lot.
the episodes start whenever you hit play.
✰ now streaming: the circle — nishimura riki
featured work: on my block (2018–2021)
✰ synopsis: four childhood best friends thought distance wouldn’t change them. but when you come back home to freeridge after your first year of college, a buried secret and gang politics collide—testing loyalty, love, and the block that raised them.
✰ mpaa rating: TV-MA — fictional universe (on my block / freeridge, california.), coming of age kinda, found family, morally grey characters, swearing, “secret relationship”, implied sexual content, angst, fluff, banter, drug use and mention, underage drinking, distorted self-image, jealousy, situationship to lovers, arguments, gun violence and gang shit, crying, socioeconomic commentary, crude humor (some boundary pushing, but what is art without such), breaking the 4th wall + more to add upon release
soundtrack to enhance reading experience: spotify | apple
start the show and hit play—
✰ pilot - fuck 12
✰ episode 2 - tba
✰ episode 3 - tba
✰ episode 4 - tba
✰ synopsis: four childhood best friends thought distance wouldn’t change them. but when you come back home to freeridge after your first year of college, a buried secret and gang politics collide—testing loyalty, love, and the block that raised them.
✰ run time: 17.1k words
✰ mpaa rating: TV-MA — fictional universe (on my block / freeridge, california.), coming of age kinda, found family, morally grey characters, swearing, “secret relationship”, implied sexual content, angst, fluff, banter, drug use and mention, underage drinking, distorted self-image, jealousy, situationship to lovers IM SORRY PLEASE, arguments, gun violence and gang shit, crying, summerween (as per gravity falls love that show), socioeconomic commentary, crude humor (some boundary pushing, but what is art without such), breaking the 4th wall a lil bit (it’s kinda fun i promise)
viewer's discretion advised.
✰ authors note!! (important): hey, welcome to the circle. this, alongside other fics in the future, will be apart of my “as seen on tv” series where i essentially make fics based on my favorite shows! i rmm doing this during my wattpad days but now it has gotten a name and a full blown makeover seeing as i am way more skilled than i was 5 years ago (or at least i’d like to think so).
these fics will literally be a mixture of me writing from memory of the show’s events, creating new scenes and dialogue (obvi, this won’t be a fic ON the show), creating whole new tales but just within the universe itself, etc. some may be oneshots, some may not be! i will make that judgment based on if i feel the fic calls for it or not. but the circle will have more than one. and there will be an upload schedule upon completion (i'm far along already dw), so make sure you turn that tv on.
this is a pilot!! more so, a temperature check to see how we're liking it thus far and if you want more.
you do not need to have watched the shows to understand fics. these can be read separately from the shows. though, it would be more fun!! i’d always recommend on my block as it is one of—if not—the greatest netflix series of all time. it’s all up to you.
soundtrack to enhance reading experience: spotify | apple
You’ve only been back in Freeridge, California for ten minutes and somehow your feet already know where to go.
You grew up on this block—this cracked sidewalk, that bent stop sign, the same sun-faded corner store where y’all used to beg for Slurpees after school. Childhood friends turned family: you, Shota, Leehan, and Riki. Neighbors since tricycles and scraped knees.
You walk up to Leehan’s house—still has the red folding chairs on the porch, the one with the wind chime—and see him and Shota inside through the window, arguing over something stupid like always.
At this point, you knew this house like you knew your own. If you were ever even really there anyway. You’ve spent summers, weekdays, weekends, school years—almost—in this home and it got to a point where you didn’t even have to knock. And if you did, then the door would always open for you because you had a key.
With a lively spirit, you barged inside—duffel bag in tow as you saw two out of your three best friends politicking on the couch. “Hey, assholes!”
Leehan paused in his movements, eyes widening just a bit before his jaw slacked. “You’re back…”
You dropped your duffel by the door with a now deflated look. “Did you expect me to stay in the woods for the whole summer?”
“Yes—I mean, no. No…we didn’t—no we didn’t. Right, Shota?” He turned to the younger, watching as he was on his phone—not even minding the interaction. “Dude!” Leehan snapped as he beamed a pillow at him.
With a thud, Shota’s phone hit the couch. “Yo—oh hey,” he looked at you with a smile. Standing up, opening his arms as he walked closer to you. “I missed you, Bun.”
“Yeah, at least someone did—ooh!” You grunted as Shota strong-armed you, wrapping his arms around you as he lifted you off your feet. “I missed you too, bro.”
He smiled at the words, “you smell like an airplane.”
Laughing, you wrapped your arms around him. Shota wasn’t always the brightest, but he was bright in every other way.
Shota, Leehan, and you all returned from your first years of college and though you didn’t get home right away—you were offered by your school’s writing club to go on a retreat with them after the semester finished. It was fun, enriching, and about five weeks. In a way, it was like summer camp for adults and it was nice to just unplug for a while after a hectic semester.
All three of you attended different schools. And while that was a hard summer’s end—you knew in some way it’d be good for you. The longest all four of you had been apart was a singular day since you were all seven years old. So eleven years later—after endless sleepovers, fights, makeups, robbing convenience stores blind, and late night phone calls—saying goodbye and seeing your cars go in different directions was the hardest thing you ever had to do.
“I missed you guys,” you said softly.
Leehan sighed, giving up his seeming distressed demeanor. “We missed you too,” he joined you and Shota as he wrapped his arms around you both. “How was everything?”
You were too enraptured in the comfort of being in the arms of your friends to realize that there was a third of your heart missing. “It was good…Learn-y, school-y.” Your feet still dangled in the air as you scanned the room; even eyeing the bathroom door for a moment hoping someone would come out. But knowing that it was early noon—Leehan’s little siblings were at day camp and his parents were working. None of them would be back until later in the day.
But even then, something felt hollow. Wrong. And you knew it when you only felt two pairs of arms around you. “Where’s Riki?”
Leehan’s arms stiffened first.
Not dramatically—just this tiny, telltale pause like his brain hit a speed bump. Shota let you down from his hug a little too fast, brushing his hands on his shorts like he suddenly needed something to do.
You frowned. “Hello? I said: where’s Riki?”
Leehan cleared his throat. “Uh…he’s, um…not here.”
“No shit. Where is he?”
Shota wouldn’t look at you. He kept glancing at Leehan like he wanted permission to talk.
“Guys.” You crossed your arms. “I’ve been home for ten minutes and you’re both acting like I asked you who killed Kennedy.”
Shota chimed in, “wasn’t it Harvey Lee Oswald?”
Leehan’s eyes didn’t leave you as he put his finger on Shota’s chest. “Lee Harvey Oswald and Riki’s…just not really around.” He shook his head as he walked to plop down on the couch.
You tilted your head in confusion. Eyes squinting as you had trouble connecting the dots. “What does that even mean? Did he move or some shit?” Crossing your arms as you approached him.
“We just—just drop it, man.” Leehan sighs. “Riki’s irrelevant.”
Your lips parted in surprise as you drew back. “Since—what? He’s been our best friend and neighbor since we were in the second grade and he’s suddenly old news?”
Shota interjected, “can you guys walk with me to the store? I want some chips.”
Without looking at him, you nodded to the door.
Shota tugged his hoodie on and headed out first, leaving you and Leehan in this thick, uncomfortable silence that felt wrong in a house you practically grew up in.
The walk to the corner store was familiar—same cracked pavement, same graffiti that had been there since middle school—but the energy between the three of you was off. Shota kept kicking a pebble like it personally offended him. Leehan jammed his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders tight.
Halfway down the block, you tried again.
“So we’re really not talking about it?”
Leehan exhaled hard through his nose. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
You snorted. “You’re lying. You’re bad at it. And you only get this weird when it has to do with some type of drama.”
Shota slowed his steps just enough for you to catch up. “Look…things got messy while you were gone.”
“What does that mean?”
Another shared look. You hated that look. It meant you’re not gonna like this.
Leehan ran a hand through his hair. “He wasn’t…he wasn’t really hanging with us much. We barely see him anymore.”
“So? We were away. He stayed back because of his stupid ass brother. We know that.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes.
Reo, Riki’s older brother, is heavily involved with a local gang—R12.
R for the family’s first initial. 12 for the street you lived on.
The kind everyone on the block pretends not to see but knows better than to cross. The name carries weight. Trouble, too.
When junior year rolled around, all four of you discussed college and looked forward to moving onto the next chapter of your lives. Shota, Leehan, Riki, and you all thought about attending the same school. Just fun, adulthood, parties, no rules.
But senior year happened and things got serious. Reo was all Riki had. Their mother passed years ago, father was hardly around and Reo had to sacrifice school to follow his birthright: the gang. The same gang everyone warned you about, the same one Riki swore he’d only ever be “adjacent” to.
It wasn’t a choice—more like gravity. Reo demanded more, and Riki got dragged with him. It started small. Doing quick runs, disappearing in the middle of sleepovers, seeing him with small bruises on his ribs.
While the three of you were filing your FAFSAs, Riki hadn’t even made his login yet. Because he foresaw it, he knew that it just wasn’t in the cards for him. Reo made sure of it.
“Man, fuck him. Who even cares…?” Shota rolled up his sleeves as he kept walking.
You shot him a look. “You care. Don’t start lying now. And don’t talk about him like that.”
He didn’t respond—just kept walking, steps quick, like he could outrun the conversation.
Leehan let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s more than just him going through that. There’s…other stuff.”
“No,” you snapped. “Explain it. Because right now you two sound like you’re mad at him for not juggling college applications while dodging gang members.”
Shota kicked at a crack in the sidewalk. “It’s not that.”
“So what is it?!” You snapped, throwing your hands up in anger. “Bro, I’m tired of the fucking riddles like come on! What the fuck happened between when y’all got back and now?” Like usual, your temper was starting to overcome you but you inhaled sharply before the heat ran down your neck and into your gut. “Why are you guys talking like he’s public enemy number one? You have five seconds before I find him myself.”
Leehan looked at Shota wearily, like he was asking for backup but knew he wasn’t getting any. Shota just shrugged, wide-eyed, like you handle it, bro, and suddenly the air felt thick enough to chew.
Leehan dragged a hand down his face. “Because he said some shit, okay?”
“That’s vague as hell.”
He tried again. “He told us something about you.”
You stared at him. “Like what? That I eat my toenails? That I punch idiots that take too long to get to the damn point? What?”
Shota winced like he knew a bomb was about to go off. “He told us that you two…hooked up before we left this year.”
Your mouth parted, breath catching. For a second, you didn’t even react—your brain was too busy finding scenarios in which it’d be solid to break into his house and strangle him while he was sleeping. Nah…the front door was too obvious. All of our houses only have one floor so maybe taking a crowbar to his window wouldn’t be such a bad start. Then the anger hit—fast, hot, bright.
It shot up your spine, tightened your jaw, curled your hands into fists before you even realized.
Leehan took one look at your face and actually stepped back. “Okay—alright—let’s not do the murdery face right now.”
“Murdery?” you scoffed. “Leehan, I’m being polite. You don’t wanna see murdery.”
Shota nodded too fast. “Yeah, she’s being polite, bro. Super polite.”
You didn’t even hear them. Your mind was still stuck on the image of Riki opening his stupid bedroom window at three in the morning to look at the street…only for you to be standing there with a crowbar like, hey bestie, remember me?
“Look,” Leehan put his hands on your shoulders as you heaved—a way of trying to push the anger below your feet. “We didn’t even believe him. We knew it was some bullshit and he didn’t tell anyone else. Just us and…just…” He pursed his lips. “Don’t worry, it’s contained.”
You shook your head as tears stung your eyes. Fists curled as you closed them and tapped your sneakers against the concrete. “I’m not gonna kill him.”
“Mhm, you’re not gonna kill him.” He encouraged.
“So you’re not gonna kill him?” Shota asked, a look of slight disbelief on his face.
“Not gonna.” You inhaled and exhaled smoothly as you opened your eyes. Letting the cool, Californian breeze run through your curly hair. “I’m going to chop his dick off with a cleaver and feed it to him.” You smiled as you backed up, booking it down the street.
Leehan didn’t even get to yell your name before you took off—full speed, booking it down the block with murder in your eyes.
“BRO—GO! GO!” Shota yelped, sprinting after you like his life depended on it.
Leehan was right behind him. “WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS! YOU CAN’T JUST—HEY!”
But you were already gone—cutting corners, hopping curbs, powered by pure betrayal and cardio-fueled vengeance.
By the time they caught up, you were stomping up Riki’s steps, fist balled, and Shota barely managed to grab your arm as you slammed your hand against the metal screen door.
“RIKI!” you barked, pounding again like the door owed you money. “OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”
The house door hummed a little as there seemed to be music playing from the inside. So loud that you don’t even think your banging made a difference.
“Dude, no—” Leehan walked forward, winded as he tried to reason with you. Shota grabbed him before he could advance further. “Just let her…”
Without another word, you forced the door open. The conversations inside cease abruptly. A huge group of guys, probably ranging from late teens to even late twenties, are scattered throughout the house as your view was clouded by thick, strong smelling smog. Through it, the opened door was able to let some of it out for you to see through. The living room was nearly trashed: beer bottles, ashes, wrappers all over the floor as your brows knitted tighter with every step you took inside.
The air was so dense you could taste it—like someone had hotboxed the entire zip code. The music thumped from somewhere deeper in the house, heavy bass rattling the picture frames and your last remaining nerve.
A couple dudes on the couch froze mid-laugh, eyes widening like they’d just seen a ghost with anger-management issues. One guy halfway through rolling a joint dropped the paper entirely. Another blinked at you through the haze, squinting like you were a hallucination he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Leehan and Shota hovered behind you in the doorway, both coughing like old men who’d wandered into the wrong nursing home.
“Goddamn,” Shota muttered. “Even my eyelashes are high.”
“Focus,” Leehan hissed.
You scanned the room—wrappers, beer bottles, someone’s shoe (just one), a chair flipped upside down like it hadn’t survived the last round of whatever chaos went down. And on the wall, barely visible through the smog, a neon light flickered BEER PONG CHAMPIONS, only barely hanging on.
Your voice came out low, deadly, and devastatingly clear:
“Where is Riki?”
The boys closest to you stiffened like you were pointing a gun, not a question. Their eyes darted toward the hallway as one of them lifted a shaky hand and pointed to the kitchen.
You didn’t even thank him.
You just stepped forward, shoulders squared, fury so sharp it cut through the haze better than the open door ever could.
Behind you, Leehan whispered, “Yeah, no, she’s gonna kill him.”
Shota sighed, resigned. “We can at least make sure it’s quick.” It was weird, kind of bizarre seeing you disappear into the smoke.
“Nuh-uh, I’m not going in there with those people.”
As you walked through and turned the corner to the kitchen, you saw him standing in a small crowd with a blunt hanging from his fingers. The moment his eyes found yours, they glazed over. You weren’t sure what exactly you saw in them. They were red, a little hazy and sleepy looking. But seeing you, blew it all.
“What the fuck is wrong with your brain?” You stomp over to him. “Huh?! I leave for writing camp and this is what I’m welcomed by?”
Riki blinks at you, clearly caught off guard by your sudden appearance. He quickly leaned off the surface as he put the blunt out on the counter—not caring if it left a mark. “Woah, hey—”
One of his other associates, a guy with some ridiculous fine line tattoos, cuts in. He eyes you up and down with a condescending smirk. “Who the hell is this chick?”
You turned to him. “This chick is Riki’s supposed childhood best friend. But I guess he wouldn’t know that.” Your attention goes back to Riki. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Disrespecting me like that to our friends?”
The guy stepped to you, his chest puffing up in anger. “Watch your mouth, little girl—”
“Alright,” Riki shook his head as he shifted his body to him. Shaking his head as his high was now fully blown. “You better watch your mouth,” his finger wagged slowly as it lightly rested on the elder’s chest. “Take that bass out of your voice, thank you.”
The tension in the room thickened, the music playing through the house seemed distant now as you watched Riki come to your defense. It wouldn’t be the first—a part of you hoped it wasn’t the last either. But the air seemed heavier than it did thirty seconds ago.
With a final sneer, the guy brushed Riki’s hand off. “Fine. But keep your friend under control, Riki. We don’t need any outsiders causing any problems.”
“I’m an outsider?!” You laugh humorlessly, “please ask—” you approached him angrily but before you could get closer, Riki grabbed you by the arm—his grip surprisingly strong. Pulling you aside in the kitchen “Yo, yo—calm the hell down.”
“Don’t tell me to—”
“Go outside.” He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t have to. It was the tone. Low. Firm. The same one he used back when you’d get worked up over group project partners who didn’t do their share. Except this time, the stakes were way higher than a C-minus.
You yanked your arm, ignoring how warm his hand had been. “I’m not going outside. I’m not done talking to you—”
“I am not having this conversation in front of them,” he hissed, eyes flicking toward the guys watching like it was premium cable. “Outside. Now.”
“Oh, so you can make decisions,” you snapped. “Interesting. Too bad you didn’t use that skill before opening your fat-ass mouth to Shota and Leehan.”
Riki’s jaw flexed. A muscle jumped. “Bro, you’re gonna get yourself jumped, and then I’m gonna have to deal with that and your yelling. Please. Outside.”
You scoffed, loud. “Cute of you to assume I wouldn’t beat their asses and yours.”
That earned you a few offended scoffs from the crowd.
Riki dragged a hand over his face, muttering something in Japanese you were ninety-eight percent sure meant “please, God, not right now.”
With a tight breath, he stepped closer—close enough that his voice dropped and you felt it more than heard it. “You’re in my brother’s house, surrounded by his people. You can’t just bark at everyone and hope it ends well.”
You glared up at him, heat radiating off your skin like you were a human wildfire. “Funny. Because you didn’t seem to care about the consequences when you told the guys we hooked up.”
His eyes widened—there it was. Guilt. Flashing across his face like lightning. “Out. Side.” He grit out. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
You stared him down, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like you were about to lunge first and think later. But the way he said it—low, edged, almost shaking—
Yeah. You knew that tone too.
So you spun on your heel and shoved past him, letting the front door slam behind you as you stepped into the warm air.
Riki followed seconds later, shutting the door softly this time. The music dulled to a muffled thump, the smoke-heavy air swapping out for something crisp, clearer…but still thick between you two.
He stayed a few steps away, hands planted on his hips as he stared at the concrete like it offended him. His voice was low, steadying. “What the fuck is wrong with your crazy ass?!”
“I’m not crazy! I’m angry! How could sit up with our friends and just—”
“What?! Do what?”
You shoved him hard but he barely stumbled. “Fucking dick! Forget that I ever knew you. I never wanna see or hear from you again! Just…” You hold up your hand in repugnance. “Ugh!” Turning to cross the street to go directly to your house, Riki catches your arm before you can make another step. “Stop, bitch—what part of ‘I fucking hate you’ do you not get?”
“Just let me explain! Look, before you at least try to walk out of my damn life—let me tell you—”
You nudged him. “Fuck off,” walking straight ahead and across the street to your house. Disappearing from the scene without another word. Riki groaned in annoyance, massaging his temples as he stood there. Torn between following you or respecting your desire for space.
But after a moment, he lifts the bottom of his black tank top, sighing into it before he’s approached by Shota and Leehan—both boys coming out of the bushes.
Shota emerged first, twigs in his hair, looking like he’d just barely survived a nature documentary. “…She’s alive, right?” he asked, glancing between the street you stormed across and Riki’s murder-face.
Leehan stepped out after him, brushing leaves off his shirt. “We weren’t hiding—we were…tactically monitoring.”
Riki shot them both a look. “You were crouched behind a bush.”
Shota whispered, “Tactical,” under his breath.
Leehan ignored him, eyes locked on Riki. “So? Did you fix it?”
Riki barked a humorless laugh. “Does it look fixed?”
Both boys assessed him. Shota: “…You look like you got hit by a car.” Leehan: “Twice.”
Riki dragged a hand over his face again, jaw tight, chest still rising a little too fast. “She won’t even let me talk. I tried to explain, and she—” he gestured vaguely toward your house—“walked off like I’m nothing to her.”
“That’s because you messed up,” Leehan said bluntly. “Like really messed up. Like…badly.”
Shota hummed. “Honestly, I thought she was gonna deck you. And I was kinda ready to join in.”
Riki kicked a pebble, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Please, I’ve been kicking your ass since the sandbox.”
Shota bristled instantly. “Bro, that was ONE time—”
“It was every time,” Riki shot back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You used to fall over if someone breathed too hard.”
Leehan waved a hand. “Yo, can we circle back to the part where you detonated your entire friendship in under thirty seconds?”
Riki’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The high was gone. The adrenaline was gone. All that was left was that tight ache in his chest, like someone was pulling each rib inward. “I didn’t mean for her to find out like that,” he muttered.
Leehan deadpanned, “you told us.”
“Yeah, because you’re my boys,” Riki snapped, pacing a short line on the sidewalk. “I didn’t think it’d turn into some weird telephone game while she was gone!”
“But you lied on your dick though. What type of cornball does that?” Shota shrugged obviously.
“I didn’t—” He inhaled, his fists curling up as he punched his palm—leaving it stinging.
Leehan sighed. “So you’re saying y’all fucked. She clearly holds the sentiment that you didn’t so…who’s lying?” He opened his hands, prepared to receive any type of clarity on the situation.
“It’s not even about who’s lying, how do I make her not angry enough to not want to punch me in the face?” He gestured to your house. “Bro, her temper is insane! She’s like a fucking chihuahua—”
Shota clapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes going wide. “Ooh, I’m telling on you.”
Leehan nodded gravely. “Yeah, we’re really gonna jump your ass then.”
Riki groaned, dragging both hands over his face. “I didn’t mean—I’m just saying she bites first and thinks later! She’s like—like—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Shota warned. “For your own safety.”
Riki let his hands drop, exasperated. “I’m being serious. She’s not gonna listen to me. She won’t even stand still long enough for me to get a sentence out. I—” He huffed. “I panicked, okay? I shouldn’t have said we—”
“Hooked up?” Leehan offered.
Riki shot him a dirty look. “Shut up. I know it was stupid.”
Shota crossed his arms. “Bro, she finished the year. She spends an extra few weeks on an isolated writing retreat. Missing time with us for whatever reason. She came home ready to hug you. And instead she got you with a blunt, a house full of gang extras, and a rumor that you two were bumping uglies behind her back. Of course she’s mad.”
Riki winced. “…Yeah.”
Leehan’s voice firm. “So start with the truth.”
Riki blinked at him like that was the most unreasonable suggestion ever. “What truth?”
“The real one,” Leehan said. “You said something happened. She said nothing happened. So which one is it? What are we actually dealing with here?”
Riki’s eyes flicked toward your house again—like the answer was written behind your window.
Shota said absentmindedly, lips pursed as he looked down at the dirt beneath his shoes. “She didn’t say nothing happened.”
“What?” Leehan furrowed his brows.
“She just got mad. She never said what did or didn’t happen.”
Riki walked backwards to his house, arms spread in vindication. “Hm. And you fuckers didn’t believe me.”
Leehan rolled his eyes so hard it was audible. “Relax, Socrates. All she confirmed is that she hates your guts.”
Shota pointed at Riki with a half-shrug. “Yeah, bro, don’t act like this is some big ‘gotcha.’ She didn’t say you were lying…but she also looked ready to kick your shit in.”
Riki dropped his arms, irritation sliding back in. “Still. None of you believed me.”
“Because your track record is dogshit,” Leehan said. “You lie about stupid shit all the time. One time you said you could backflip off Shota’s porch and you landed on his mom’s hibiscus.”
“Hey, that flowerbed recovered,” Riki muttered.
“No, it didn’t,” Shota said. “She still brings it up at family dinners.”
Riki threw his head back with a groan. “Bro, can we stay on topic?”
Leehan crossed his arms. “Cool. That means we’re back to the original question: what actually went down?”
Riki’s jaw ticked. He turned slightly, like the angle would help him dodge the question.
Shota wasn’t letting him. “Bro. We’ve known you since you had Lego hair. Just spit it out.”
A long beat.
Riki’s tongue pressed against his cheek, eyes dropping to the sidewalk. “I’ll catch y’all later.” He turned around fully to walk back up his steps.
“Wh—hey!” Shota calls out.
Shota jogged after him, grabbing the back of his tank like a mom snagging a toddler about to run into traffic. “You are not gonna hit us with the dramatic exit when you’re the one who started this whole novella.”
Riki yanked his shirt free with a scoff. “I didn’t start anything—”
“You literally did,” Leehan yelled from the sidewalk. “You started it with your mouth. And continued it with your mouth. And escalated it with your…actually? Still your mouth.”
Riki spun around, eyes wide, offended. “Can the both of you get off my jock? Damn!”
Shota pointed at him, calm and judgmental like an annoyed substitute teacher. “No. Because you’re being a loser. And I say that with love.”
Riki lifted both hands to his face, dragging them down like he could physically wipe the embarrassment off. “Y’all are the worst friends alive.”
“And yet,” Leehan said, stepping closer, “we’re the only ones who can save your dumbass from getting rocked by your girl.”
“She’s not my girl!” Riki snapped instantly, which absolutely no one believed.
Both boys blinked at him like he’d just said the sky was green.
Shota said. “And I’m Scooby Doo.”
Leehan pointed at the door behind Riki. “Stop stalling. We asked what happened. You clearly don’t want to say it. Why?”
Riki’s throat bobbed.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Shifted his weight.
Looked everywhere except at them.
Then booked it right into the house. Locking the door behind him with a click.
Shota and Leehan just stared at the locked door like it had personally offended them.
A beat.
Then another.
“…Did he just—?” Shota blinked.
“Yeah,” Leehan said flatly. “He ran.”
—
The rest of the night was a weird one. It felt like your college nights. Locked away in your space, biding the time until you were finally set free from the deadlines and expectations and able to leave. To be with your family but your friends most importantly.
All three of those boys meant something differently to you; and it almost made you worry about how your life would’ve transpired if you hadn’t been put next to them for talking too much.
Leehan was the diplomat. The water to everyone’s fire as the eldest one of the quartet. The one that spoke when you four were sent to the principal’s office for setting off a stinkbomb in Mrs. Jenson’s art class.
Shota was always in his own world. But he meant it for all of you. He was nearly impossible to hate to the point where if you were too mean to him, you’d start crying. Not only was he unreasonably peculiar at all times, he was the friend that you’d call in the middle of the night just to talk and he’d answer like he wasn’t mid rapid eye movement.
Riki was always very tricky. The rhyme was not intended, I promise. He was the wild card. The spark. The kid who lived like he had a personal vendetta against boredom. He’d drag you into trouble with a grin, swear you were overreacting, and then somehow sweet-talk the consequences down to a warning. He could charm adults, piss off authority, and get the three of you laughing in the same breath.
But he was also the one who always noticed.
When you were too quiet. When your knee bounced under the desk. When you smiled but didn’t mean it.
He’d nudge your foot with his sneaker. Or toss you a note. Or mouth a stupid joke until you cracked.
Riki was complicated. Not in the dramatic way—more in the “why does your chest feel weird when he looks at you too long” way.
Tonight he had you feeling everything except calm. You lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling like it contained answers or at least a refund policy for emotional tax. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that made your thoughts echo.
Shota, Leehan, Riki. Your boys. Your constants. Your headaches.
You exhaled slowly, sinking deeper into your mattress. You’d kill them before you ever lost them. Probably.
Just then, you nearly jumped out of your skin as you heard a sharp knock on your window. Turning your head to the right, you almost fell off your bed as Riki stood there—tall and looming over your window in a black hoodie.
He lifted a hand and knocked again—lighter this time, like that made it any less insane.
You hissed under your breath, scrambling off the bed and practically tripping over your blanket as you marched to the window. Sliding it up, you whispered harshly, “Are you out of your mind?!”
Riki blinked at you, equal parts guilty and stubborn. “You weren’t answering your phone.”
“So your next idea was breaking into my house?”
“It’s not breaking in if the window’s unlocked,” he shrugged, already hooking his fingers over the sill like he was about to climb in whether you liked it or not.
You smacked his hand. “Try it and I’m calling the cops.”
“You won’t.”
“I absolutely will.”
“You won’t,” he repeated, annoyingly sure.
He leaned closer, breath puffing in the cool night air. “Can you just—” His jaw clenched. “Let me talk to you.”
You crossed your arms. “Talk from out there.”
Riki shot you a look like you were being intentionally difficult. (You were.) “It’s cold.”
“It’s a Californian summer night, it’s sweater weather at best.” You shrug haphazardly.
“I’m anemic.”
“No. I’m anemic.”
“Same difference.”
“Go.” You lightly pushed him back and out of the windowsill. “Don’t you have gang members to go rob a bank with, hard-ass?”
Riki’s face twisted like you’d just accused him of running a puppy-smuggling ring. “Rob a—what?!” he whisper-yelled, gripping the window frame before you could shut it. “You think I’d rob a bank with them? Half those dudes can’t even do basic math!”
“Sounds like a personal problem,” you said, trying to pry his fingers off the sill.
He held on tighter.
You glared. He glared back, a standoff worthy of a Western, except you were in pajamas and he looked like a raccoon rifling through trash.
“Why are you still here?” you hissed.
“Because,” he snapped back in a whisper, “my name is getting dragged through the mud, my best friend hates me, my other two best friends think I’m an idiot—”
“They’re right.”
“—and you still won’t let me explain!”
You gripped the window and started lowering it—slowly, deliberately—like a villain pressing a big red button.
Riki’s eyes went huge. “Don’t you—don’t you dare close this window on me.”
You kept lowering it.
“Bro—” Down another inch.
“Are you serious right now—” Another inch.
He shoved his hand under the frame, blocking it like some tragic action hero trying to stop a garage door from crushing him. “I’m not finished!”
“You said plenty,” you replied, voice flat as drywall. “So we’re even.”
“I didn’t get to say anything!” he whisper-yelled, face squished awkwardly under the descending window. “Okay—I said a little. But not in the way you think—ow, that’s my knuckle—can you just—STOP—”
You paused just long enough for him to yank his hand out before he lost a finger.
He immediately slapped both palms on the windowsill, breathless, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “What is wrong with you?!”
“You came to my window at—” you checked the analog clock on the wall, “—one forty-six in the morning looking like you crawled out of a crime documentary and I’m the problem?”
He pointed at you, indignant. “Yes!”
You pushed the window down another inch. Closing it.
He groaned, “oh come on you can’t—” He watched you lower the blinds, your narrowed eyes the last thing he saw before you closed the curtains. “Please?” Riki sighed, leaning against the window as he called out. “Come on, open up for me? Please—”
The TV you had on only increased in volume.
Riki’s head thunked against the glass like he was trying to transfer his brain cells through osmosis. “Are you—are you SERIOUS right now? You’re gonna drown me out with The OC?!”
You didn’t answer.
Cue the theme music swelling louder.
“Boo.” Knock, knock, knock. “Bunnyboo, I know you hear me.”
Silence.
Another knock, faster. “Bro, don’t do me like this. At least yell at me through the glass. Throw something. Flip me off. Give me anything!”
You turned the TV up another two notches.
He pressed his forehead to the window again, palms flat, voice dropping low—half pleading, half warning. “Don’t make me climb in here. I swear to God, I will break in like a raccoon with a vendetta—”
A pillow smacked the glass from inside—the clanging of the blinds as it hit the hard surface.
He flinched. “…Okay. Message received.”
But he didn’t leave.
He stayed right there—pacing once, twice—before finally planting himself on the little strip of concrete beneath your window, sitting down like he paid rent there. Legs stretched out, hoodie bunched at his elbows, head tipped back against your siding. “Come on…” He whispered to himself.
He rubbed both hands over his face, dragging down like he could physically peel the stress off. “I’m gonna die out here,” he muttered. “She’s actually gonna let me freeze to death on suburban concrete. Damn.”
You muted the TV for two seconds—just long enough for him to perk up—before turning it right back on. He deflated so hard you could practically hear it.
“Wow,” he said to the night sky. “She’s evil. She’s actually evil. And she wonders why I lie awake at night thinking about—”
You whacked the window again with another pillow.
He jumped. “HEY—okay, okay! I take it back! You’re not evil, you’re just—” He paused, searching for something nice. “—temperamental.”
Another pillow hit the glass.
He held both hands up like he was being detained. “How many pillows do you have?!”
For a moment, he just sat there, breathing out shaky frustration, knees bent, arms draped loosely over them. The porch light cast him in soft gold, and for once he didn’t look like the loudmouthed, idiotic menace who’d started this whole mess.
He looked like someone who’d been losing his mind over you all night. And then—quietly, almost too quiet: “…Boo. Please let me fix this.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tapping anxiously.
“I didn’t tell them what you think I did,” he said, softer. “I swear. I didn’t make you look stupid. I didn’t—” His voice caught. “I didn’t disrespect you. Not the way you’re imagining.”
You froze behind the blinds.
He exhaled like the words tasted bitter. “I didn’t even tell them everything. Not the stuff that…mattered.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the roots.
“You think I’m out here playing around,” he said. “But I’m not. And I don’t know how to prove that when you won’t open the damn window.”
You didn’t move. He didn’t expect you to.
He tilted his head back against the siding again, eyes closing, breath leaving him in a quiet, frustrated laugh. “Fine,” he murmured. “I’ll sit out here all night if I have to.”
A pause.
“Knowing my dumbass? I probably will.”
Then, he heard movement from inside the house. Leaning into the siding did he lean up as his heart rate jumped. He stood up, brushing his sweats off as he walked around the front of the house. Only for him to be met with your mom—robe, bonnet, and sleepy-face in tow.
Riki froze mid-step, eyes widening like he’d just walked into a horror scene. “Uh…hi?” His voice cracked somewhere between sheepish and terrified.
Your mom blinked at him, hands on her hips, taking in the hoodie, the sweatpants, the midnight energy radiating off him like a storm cloud. “Riki Nishimura,” she said slowly, voice low but deadly calm. “What exactly are you doing on my lawn at—” she glanced at her phone—“almost two in the morning?”
“I—uh—” He raised his hands like a surrendering cartoon character. “I had to go to the store for Reo. I forgot my keys and now I’m locked out…” This wouldn’t be the first time he’s lied to your mom, it was just about whether she’d believe him. “I called him a few times and he’s not answering so…”
“So…you couldn’t go to either of the other boy’s houses? You had to come to my daughter’s?”
Riki’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He looked like a fish trying to talk its way out of being dinner. “Well—okay—hear me out,” he blurted, already panicking. “I would sleep at Shota’s but he snores insanely loud and the last time I did, he almost suffocated from the pillow I put over his face. And Leehan is entirely too particular about how I sleep like he wants the bed split right in—”
Your mom gave him a look so dry it could’ve dehydrated a cactus. “Inside. Now. Before I start asking real questions.”
Riki nodded so fast his hood nearly flew off. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”
But as he followed her toward the door, he couldn’t stop the tiny, hopeful glance he threw toward your window—praying you hadn’t heard any of that, even though he knew deep down…you definitely had.
He kicked his shoes off as he entered, “I promise I’ll be out—” he whispered.
“Shut up, you’re not a guest here. I love you, goodnight.” She yawned as she walked the opposite way to her room.
“Love you too, sleep well.” He whispered back.
Riki stood in the hallway like someone who’d just been adopted and arrested in the same breath. He watched your mom disappear down the hall, the soft shuffle of her slippers fading.
He took two small steps forward. Then froze when the floorboard under him squeaked loud enough to wake the dead. He saw your shadow moving around in your room from the small sliver of light that poked through the gap of the frame and door itself. His gut told him to speed up down the hall. To which he did—swiftly—before you could close the door on him.
But he beat you there, wedging himself in. “Gotcha.” He beamed, shimmying through as he closed it softly behind him.
“Are you crazy?” You whisper-yelled. “Coming into my house like this? Lying to my mom?!”
“I’m just as crazy as you are.” He unzipped his hoodie, tossing it onto the rack on your closet door. “Don’t act like you haven’t lied to Reo however many times—”
“That’s different. If we’re gonna be out late or something but—”
“Look, I don’t care about any of that. I came to fix things with you.” He stepped forward, ensuring you looked up at him. “Just hear me out…two minutes.” You studied him—hair messy from the wind, shirt rumpled, socks mismatched, eyes big and tired and a little frantic. You hated how familiar he looked in your room. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d slipped in after midnight.
“You get one.” You nod once. “And take off those dirty ass pants.” You sighed as you turned to your drawers. Scouring until you landed on a clean pair of black sweats.
With some rustling behind you, Riki stripped out of his pants. Revealing his black Calvin Klein boxers that you loved so much. That he knew you went crazy for.
“…Did you seriously just—?”
“What?” he said, way too innocent for someone in nothing but briefs in your bedroom at two in the morning. “You told me to take ‘em off.”
“I meant go change in the bathroom, you psychopath.”
He blinked. “Why would I walk all the way to the bathroom when your room is right here?”
You stared at him.
He stared back like this was the most logical sentence any human had ever spoken.
“Riki,” you said slowly, pointing the sweats at him like a weapon. “Put these on before I throw holy water at you.”
He snatched the pair from your hand with a tiny smirk—one he tried (and failed) to hide by looking down. “You always give me the soft ones,” he murmured, pulling them on.
“Well they’re yours…” you sigh, plopping right onto the edge of your bed.
He froze mid–pull, waistband halfway up his hips. “…What?”
You blinked at him. “What, what?”
He let the rest of the sweats snap into place, slow, like his brain was rebooting. “Did you just say they’re mine?”
You groaned, falling back on your palms. “Yes, Riki, congratulations, you own a pair of cotton-poly blend sweatpants. Don’t let it go to your head. So what? You’ve been here like a trillion times.”
But of course it did. You watched the shift happen in real time—his shoulders relaxing, his mouth tugging into that stupid boyish half‑smile he only ever got when he felt special.
He toed his discarded pants into a pile and padded over to you, the soft thud of his mismatched socks making him look criminally at-home in your space. “They’re mine,” he repeated, quieter this time. Like he’d just been handed a family heirloom instead of laundry.
You rolled your eyes. “Riki, don’t get sentimental, it’s literally the third time you’ve forgotten to take them back.”
He dropped down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “Still counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does,” he said, leaning back on his hands so his arm pressed along yours. “‘Cause that means when I come over…you expect me to stay.”
Your breath stuttered—just barely, but enough.
His voice softened. “And I know you’re pissed. And I know you’re pretending you’re not glad I’m here.” A beat. “But you said they’re mine.”
He nudged your knee with his. “Let me explain, Boo. Please.”
Your knee bounced, nerves bubbling up in the pit of your stomach as you looked down at your hands in your lap. “You promised, Riki. That you wouldn’t tell anyone what happened that night.”
Riki’s breath caught—not loud, not dramatic, just this tiny break in his chest like your words had clipped something vital. He didn’t move at first. Just stared at you, jaw set, eyes searching your profile like the truth might be written somewhere on your cheek. “I…I didn’t tell them in a malicious way.”
You turned your head as your anger bubbled up in your stomach. But he knew how to placate you. “No, no, no…listen. Look at me.” He gently grabbed your shoulders to turn you to face him. “Damn, you’re like a pitbull.”
You slapped his hands off your shoulders instantly. “Don’t call me a pitbull.”
“You are a pitbull,” he shot back, whisper‑yelling. “Small. Angry. Bites without warning.”
“I’m literally taller than you,” you snapped.
“You are not taller than—okay, you know what, that’s not the point.” He dragged a hand down his face, regrouping, then looked at you with that maddening mix of exasperation and adoration that made you want to smack him and kiss him in the same breath. “Listen to what I’m saying.”
You crossed your arms so hard your shoulders creaked.
He leaned forward, matching your intensity with his own. “I was just doing it for your protection.” He watched your face blend into confusion. “Not from the guys, from the guys my brother deals with.”
“Um…?”
“While you were gone, some of them were saying that they were gonna get at you when you came back. Obviously by that point, me and you already…” He trailed off. “And it was under wraps. But the way they were talking,” he shook his head, his tongue poking his cheek as he recalled the repulsive language. “I had to ‘claim’ you. Let them know you were mine.”
“I’m not an object, Riki.”
“I know, Boo. I know. I didn’t wanna put you in that position but I had to for the sake of those guys leaving you alone when you got back.”
Your brows pulled together, the heat in your chest shifting—still anger, but now tangled with something colder, sharper. “That’s not protection,” you said quietly.
Riki winced like you’d flicked him right in the soul. “I know. I know that. And if there was any other way—literally any—I would’ve taken it.”
You stared at him, trying to read past the excuses, past the dramatics, past the Riki-isms he wrapped himself in like bubble wrap. But his eyes weren’t dodging. Nor were they defensive. Just tired. And tense. And…a little fearful.
Your voice softened a notch. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
He huffed out a laugh—dry, humorless, one shoulder lifting. “Because you’d say exactly what you’re saying now. That I don’t get to ‘claim’ you. That you’re not a trophy. That you don’t need saving.” He added, “plus by that time you were at your retreat, didn’t have your phone. Was I supposed to send a smoke signal? Letter in a bottle?”
“It would’ve been appreciated.” You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I can’t stand you sometimes.”
Riki groaned, “dude, you’re so immature.”
“Me?!” You gasped, “I’m immature yet you fold under zero pressure and stutter when you lie?”
“Don’t do that. We’re grown now, I shouldn’t even be lying to anybody.”
“Right. So telling your groupies about our night of passion was sooo grown?”
He smiled, boyishly. “So you thought there was passion?” Slowing reaching his hand over to your waist before you smacked it away.
“No! I’m just saying that you’re a dick and never consider me for anything. Not me, Leehan, or Shota.”
Riki looked at you like you had three heads. “Are you—what are you talking about?”
You scoffed, “how did they even find out? Leehan told me that only he and Shota knew. Now you’re saying that—”
“I told them after the fact so they wouldn’t have to hear it from anybody else!” He stood up, “gosh, how low do you think I am? Like, do you really think I’m just some loser?”
Your head snapped up at his tone. He wasn’t yelling, but the hurt in his voice sliced sharp enough.
“Riki, that’s not—”
“No, because you’re talking like I’m out here giving press conferences about our business.” He pointed at himself, brows furrowed, genuinely offended. “You think I’d embarrass you like that? You think I’d embarrass myself like that?”
You opened your mouth, shut it, then crossed your arms tighter. “I think you do dumb things without thinking.”
His laugh was one sharp exhale. “Yeah? So do you.”
“That is not the point—”
“It is,” he cut in, stepping closer, eyes locked on yours with that frustrating intensity that made your stomach flip. “Because you’re acting like I’m some clown who doesn’t care about you. Like I’d run around bragging about us to look cool. That’s not me. That’s never been me.”
You faltered. Just a hiccup. Barely noticeable—except he noticed everything. “So telling people about us having sex on a summer night—”
“God, what do you not get?!” He put his hands out in frustration, “I didn’t tell anyone for fun! Or to lie on my dick—not that it was even a lie. I did it because otherwise, you’d have some weird ass guys pushing up on you and I can’t have that. For my sanity or your safety.”
You sighed dramatically, crossing your arms as you looked away from him. Turning your head away like you were a child.
“Look at me.” Riki said firmly but to no avail.
“Hm.” You shrugged as you crossed your legs. Your bare legs rubbing together over your checkered pajama shorts.
He shook his head. “Dude, you need to grow the fuck up and stop acting like a petulant child.”
You snapped your head back toward him so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. “Petulant?” you echoed, voice shooting up an octave. “Oh, wow. Big word. Did you eat a dictionary for breakfast or—”
“See?” he barked, throwing his hands up. “That! That right there!”
“What right there?!”
“You act like you don’t care but then you get mad like you care the most.” He pointed at you like you were a math problem he’d been failing for years. “You can’t even look at me without doing the dramatic little eye-roll-head-turn combo—”
“I do not—”
“You do,” he cut in, stepping forward, voice firm, eyes sharp. “You’re doing it right now.”
Your jaw dropped. “I am not—”
“You are,” he repeated, exasperated beyond mortal comprehension. “And it’s fine—like, it’s actually kinda cute when you’re not actively trying to ruin my life—but right now? Right now I need you to stop pretending you’re five years old and actually hear me.”
You scoffed so loud the walls probably shook. “Five years old? Riki, I swear to God—”
“No, seriously.” He crouched down a bit so he was more level with you, eyes narrowing just enough to make your pulse jump. “Grow. Up.”
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened.
You were halfway to telling him off when he added, annoyingly soft:
“I’m trying to talk to you. Not fight. Not yell. Talk. But you’re making it impossible.”
You blinked at him, chest tight, fury and embarrassment and something dangerously close to vulnerability twisting together.
His voice dropped low. “Stop looking away from me. I hate when you do that.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He leaned in, jaw tight. “And it makes me feel like you don’t care.”
That sentence froze you mid-breath. “…What?” you whispered.
Your heartbeat kicked up so loudly you were sure he could hear it. You sat there, arms crossed, shoulders tense, but eyes finally—finally—on him.
Riki looked back at you with an honesty that stripped every smart remark right off your tongue.
“Stop acting like I’m some villain,” he murmured. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.” He reached up, brushing a curl that fell out of your ponytail—behind your ear. “And with that funky ass temper, I can’t get a word in.”
You stare at him for a moment, tilting your chin to the side his hand was on as your eyes flit to the side. Like you were almost embarrassed to enjoy physical touch from him. “Riki.”
“Yes?”
“How long have you known me for? Do you remember?”
His hand froze halfway down your cheek like you’d just hit him with a pop quiz he absolutely did not study for.
“…Huh?” he blinked.
You sighed, leveling him with a stare that could’ve melted steel. “How long have you known me? Since when?”
Riki straightened, shoulders pulling back as if bracing for impact. “Since we were seven.”
“And in all those years,” you continued, voice low, “has there ever been a moment where my mouth hasn’t gotten me or one of us into some type of trouble?”
He pursed his lips in thought, his eyes seeming to search through the crevices of his brain. “Um…no not really.” Riki looked back from ages seven to twenty—trying to assess when your sharp tongue and impulsive actions hadn’t done them well.
“See?” You smiled in jest. “And you guys just accept me for me. This is who I am. And the fact that you hate it now all of a sudden—”
Riki rolls his eyes, frustration flaring in his chest. “No one’s saying we don’t accept you,” he retorts, his tone firm. “But just because we’ve put up with your bullshit for years doesn’t mean you can’t be held accountable for your words and actions. This isn’t some free pass to act like a brat whenever you want.”
“Yes it is!” You laugh, “because I accept you for all your shit. You’re like a diet version of me.”
Riki’s whole face twisted, “please. You’re the most mini-me of anyone I know.”
“Are you trying to son me?”
Riki laughed, leaning into you as he laid his head on your shoulder. “You are my son, you wanna be like me soooo bad.”
You shoved his forehead lightly. “Shut up.”
He blinked at you, affronted. “Don’t hit your daddy.”
You smacked him again.
“HEY—”
“Keep talking like that,” you warned, “and I’m putting you in the home early.”
He leaned back, pointing at you like you were the crazy one. “You can’t put me in the home. You’re my dependent.”
“Riki, I am older than you.”
“That’s what makes this so embarrassing for you,” he said, absolutely delighted with himself. “Imagine being older and still being my mini-me.”
Your eye twitched so violently he had to bite back a laugh.
Then he softened, just a little—head tilting, voice dropping. “Come on, Boo. I’m messing with you.” His shoulder nudged yours. “You know I don’t think of you like that.” Leaning his head back on your shoulder as he reached down for your hand. “I’m sorry, again.”
You tried—tried—to keep your spine stiff, arms crossed, jaw tight. But the second his fingers brushed yours, your whole posture betrayed you. Your hand didn’t curl around his, but it didn’t pull away either. It just…sat there. Suspiciously compliant.
You exhaled, staring at the wall like it might give you divine guidance.
“I know.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I messed up. I scared you. I made you feel played. I talked too much, I didn’t talk enough—I know.” He lifted his head just enough to look at you. “But I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear to God, Boo, every dumb thing I did was me trying to keep you safe.”
Your throat tightened despite every effort to swallow the feeling down.
“And I know you don’t like being protected,” he added, voice threading into something shy. “But you matter to me. In a way that makes it hard to think straight sometimes.”
Ever since you could remember meeting him, Riki had been your protector. And the worst part? He’d never even asked for the job.
He just…took it.
The kid who yanked you out of trouble before you even recognized it. The teenager who stood in front of you during every argument you started. The grown man now sitting in your bedroom at two in the damn morning, wearing your/his pants and looking at you like you were the whole reason he learned how to fight in the first place.
His knuckles grazed your jaw as he leaned in, nudging your cheek with his nose the way he always did when he was trying to make you smile. It worked—of course it did—your laugh spilling out small and helpless. “Your hero, your knight…” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. The smile that followed wasn’t cocky or teasing, but something almost…bashful. Like he couldn’t believe he’d earned the right to say it out loud. “Remember?”
But the word hero didn’t even begin to cover it.
He’d been a shadow and a shield, a tether and a torch—always one step ahead of whatever chaos you were about to fling yourself into. He carried your messes like they weighed nothing, shouldered your storms like they were summer rain. Half the time you wondered if he’d been assigned to you at birth, like some overworked guardian angel who accidentally got attached.
And you did remember. Every version of him. Every moment he’d stepped between you and the world like it was instinct. Like saving you was simply something he knew how to do—before he even knew how to save himself.
“Mhm,” you nodded—barely, quietly, like admitting it too loudly might crack something wide open between you.
His eyes softened even more at that tiny sound, as if your agreement carried an entire lifetime of shared secrets. His fingers slipped from your jaw to the side of your neck, feather-light, tracing the spot he always touched when he was trying to ground you…or ground himself. You could feel the tremor hiding in his thumb. He was steady for everyone else—impenetrable, unshakable—but with you? His armor always rattled just a little.
“Good,” he whispered, almost like he needed reassurance. Like he was afraid you might’ve forgotten who he’d always tried to be for you.
You hadn’t. God, you hadn’t.
If anything, the memories rose up all at once—him grabbing your sleeve before you stepped into the street at eight years old, him taking the blame for something you’d said at twelve, him pulling you behind him during the campfire argument at fifteen, eyes dark and jaw set like he’d burn the whole forest down before he let someone talk to you sideways. Him now, sitting inches from you, still trying to guard you from something invisible in the room.
He leaned in a little closer, forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice lowering like the hour demanded honesty. “I always wanted to be that for you,” he said. “Even when you didn’t need me to be.”
Your chest tightened—not painfully, but in that terrifyingly sweet way that told you he meant every word. “It’s not like I need you anyway…” You smile shyly as you nudge him with your elbow.
“No?” He laughed, “you don’t need me, Boo?” He beamed, wrapping his arms around your waist—pulling your side into him.
You shook your head, “nope—oof! Dude—”
Burying his face into your neck as he blew raspberries into it, he pulled you back flat onto the bed as you both laughed. You hit the mattress with a soft thud, breath catching in your throat before dissolving into helpless laughter. “Riki—stop—!” you wheezed, kicking a leg uselessly as he doubled down, arms locked around you like he’d been waiting all night for an excuse to tackle you.
He blew another loud, obnoxious raspberry against your neck, the kind that made your whole body jolt. “Don’t need me, huh?” he taunted, his words muffled against your skin as he climbed on top of you. “Say it again. Go ahead. I dare you.”
You tried to twist away, but his grip only tightened, warm and solid and stupidly comforting. “I don’t—!” you squeaked, halfway grinning, halfway choking on your own breath. “I don’t need—Riki, seriously—!”
“Liar,” he declared, without even giving you a chance to finish, pressing his forehead into the curve of your shoulder like you were some sort of pillow he owned. “Biggest liar I’ve ever met.”
You fought him for another second—maybe two—before your muscles gave out in that familiar way they always did around him. The laughter faded into a soft, breathless quiet, the room still humming with the echo of it. His weight settled over you, heavy and warm, like he’d decided this was his new home address.
He exhaled against your neck, softer this time—pressing a gentle kiss there before he raised his head. Nose to nose with you as you both smiled when your eyes met, his voice dropping back to something unbearably gentle. “How was school? You haven’t found my replacement yet, huh?”
“Nuh-uh…no one could ever replace you.”
His lips quirked—not into that smug little smirk he wore when he was winning, but something smaller, almost startled. Like he hadn’t expected you to hand him an answer that soft, that honest, without putting up some kind of fight first.
His fingers brushed your waist, thumb tracing slow, unconscious circles like he was memorizing the shape of you. “Yeah?” he murmured, the word barely more than a breath. “You saying I’m…irreplaceable?”
You rolled your eyes, but it came out ruined—too fond, too warm. “That’s literally what ‘no one could ever replace you’ means.”
His thumb paused mid-circle on your waist, the warmth of his touch lingering like a question he was scared to ask out loud.
“Yeah, but…” he said slowly, eyes flicking over your face as if trying to read something between your lashes. “You say stuff like that and then pretend we’re just—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Nothing.”
Your breath caught. Not because he was wrong, but because he was painfully, dangerously right. “We are nothing,” you said a little too quickly, a little too defensively. “Like—we have to be. You know how it’d look if anyone found out.”
Riki stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was green. “How it’d look to who? Our friends?”
“Yes!” You sat up slightly, annoyed that he wasn’t getting it. “If they think I’m sneaking around with you, it’s gonna make everything weird. I don’t want Leehan or Shota or anybody else thinking there’s…a thing. I don’t want a rift.”
“A rift,” he repeated, deadpan. “You think you and me laughing at two in the morning in your bed is gonna break up the Fantastic Four?”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.” He tugged you a tiny bit closer by your hip, eyes locked on yours. “Boo, we’ve gotten through worse. They’re not gonna fall apart because we—” He hesitated, jaw working. “—because we care about each other differently now.”
You swallowed hard, your voice smaller now. “I just don’t want them picking sides.”
His expression softened like melting wax. He leaned his forehead to yours again, gentler this time. “No one’s picking sides. Not unless you start picking fights again, and even then I’m still betting on you.”
You snorted, the tension easing just an inch.
He took the opportunity, slipping a hand up your back, grounding you with his warmth. “Look,” he murmured, “I get not wanting to make waves. I do. But don’t pretend this is nothing just to keep the peace.”
Your heartbeat thudded once, sharp and loud.
“Because it’s not nothing,” he whispered. “Not to me.”
“I know, Riki…Just—please?” You bring your hand up to his cheek, brushing his chiseled jaw. Though he shook his head slowly with soft eyes, you whispered—lips brushing against his as you mumbled. “Please, for me? Please…?”
His breath hitched the second your lips grazed his—soft enough to deny, close enough to ruin him. His eyes fluttered half-shut, like he couldn’t decide whether to lean in or back away before he did something stupid. “Baby…” His voice was barely sound now, more exhale than words. You felt it against your mouth, warm and shaky. “You know I’d do anything you asked.”
You nudged closer—not kissing him, not quite, just letting the shape of him press into the shape of you. Your palm was warm on his jaw, your thumb sweeping the curve of his cheekbone. His breath stuttered again. “But you’re asking me to pretend,” he murmured, eyes opening fully. “To pretend I don’t…feel this. With you. About you.”
Your fingers flexed at his skin, and he shivered.
“I’m not asking you to pretend,” you whispered back. “I’m just asking you to help me protect what we already have. Before anyone else gets involved. Before it turns into drama or sides or expectations. I just…want us. Quietly. Carefully.”
His jaw clenched under your hand—less anger, more restraint. The kind he only ever showed with you.
“And if I say yes,” he asked, voice low, “does that mean I only get you in moments like this? When the door’s closed and everyone’s asleep?”
Your throat bobbed.
“If that’s what it takes to make sure that we don’t ruin our group.” you whispered.
For a beat, he didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you, his forehead pressing to yours like he was steadying himself on the only thing that hadn’t ever failed him.
Then he exhaled, long and quiet, his hand sliding from your back to cradle the side of your neck. “Fine,” he murmured. “For you.” His nose brushed yours, gentle, aching. “But don’t ask me to act like you don’t mean something to me. Even if no one else gets to know yet.”
His thumb traced your throat, slow, deliberate. “I can’t fake that. Not even for you.”
—
The next morning
—
“Cousin?!” Leehan called out to his mom as she moved through the kitchen. “What cousin?!”
Mrs. Kim sighed as she chopped up vegetables, using the knife as a pointer to gesture to the basket of laundry on the counter that she needed her son to fold. “My friend from high school, Alexa, is sending her daughter to go to school here.”
With a roll of the eye, “school or university? Neither start for another month and a half.” He goes to fold some of the shirts in the basket. Tucking in the small ones of his younger brother and sister.
“She got into USC. I thought she could stay here, hang out with you and your friends. Just to get acclimated.” She says, looking down as she chops up a carrot. “Her mom’s staying back in Honduras where they live now and she just wanted to get out. See the world other than where she’s from. You get it.”
Leehan sighed, “we don’t need another buddy; and why do we need another person in here? It’s already crowded as is.” His little siblings breeze past him, pushing him into the counter as they giggle—running amok in the kitchen and living room.
Mrs. Kim slammed the knife down with a sneer. “No playing in the living room! Go in the yard!”
The two little ones scattered instantly, shrieking as they bolted for the back door. Leehan winced, rubbing the spot on his hip where a rogue elbow had caught him. “See?” he muttered. “Chaos. Pure chaos. And you wanna add another college student into this circus?”
His mom didn’t even look up as she slid the carrots into a bowl. “She’s not just any college student. She’s Alexa’s daughter. And she’s never lived away from home before. She’ll need support.”
“Support,” he echoed flatly. “Right. And by support you mean me.”
Mrs. Kim shot him a look that could level a grown man. “I mean all of us. But especially you. You’re the oldest. Responsible. Reliable.”
He blinked. “Mom, you asked me to unclog the shower last week and I nearly passed out from the smell.”
“Exactly,” she said, patting his cheek. “Builds character.”
He groaned into the laundry basket. “And what’s her name?” he asked, voice muffled in defeat.
“Xiomara.”
Leehan lifted his head like she’d just announced they were adopting a Bengal tiger. “Xiomara?” he repeated, slowly, like the name itself was a threat. “Mom, that sounds like a girl who walks into a room and immediately ruins my life.”
Mrs. Kim swatted his arm with a dish towel. “She’s very sweet!”
“That’s what people said about Riki before he started bossing me around,” he muttered.
From outside, one of his little siblings shrieked triumphantly, followed by a loud thump. Mrs. Kim didn’t even flinch. “You’ll take her around, introduce her to your friends, show her the area—”
“Mom.”
“—help her move in, make sure she’s eating—”
“Mom.”
“—maybe drive her to orientation—”
“Mom!”
Finally, she looked up.
“What?”
“I’m not a babysitter,” he huffed. “I barely babysit them.” He pointed out the window where one of the kids was trying to climb the garden hose like it was a rope in gym class.
Mrs. Kim clicked her tongue as she went to chop some garlic. “She’s not a baby. She’s eighteen.”
Leehan’s soul left his body. “EIGHT—Mom, that’s literally barely legal! I can’t be seen hanging out with a kid! I’m twenty! People will think I’m recruiting!”
Mrs. Kim pursed her lips, squinting her eyes as she clutched the knife tighter in her hands. No words were spoken as she tapped the surface slowly.
Leehan froze.
Not because she looked angry—but because that tap? That knife-tap? That was the “choose your next words like your life depends on it” tap.
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay. Alright. That came out wrong.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He gulped.
“What I meant,” he corrected quickly, “was that—uh—eighteen is…young. Very young. Like ‘still doesn’t know which side of the street has the bus stop’ young.”
His mother didn’t blink. “Continue.”
“And!” he added, voice cracking like a man under interrogation, “—and I am not qualified for mentorship. I’m barely feeding myself on time. I had cereal for dinner yesterday.”
“That’s because you refused to eat the stew I made.”
“It had mushrooms!”
Tap. Tap.
He winced.
Mrs. Kim sighed through her nose, the way women do when they’ve raised three children, a husband, and apparently now one extra stray. “She is not a kid. She is a guest. A guest who will be living under my roof. Which means she will be treated like family.”
Leehan nodded rapidly. “Right. Family. Like a sibling.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Perfect,” he said.
A beat.
“Except,” she raised a brow, “you will not treat her like you treat your siblings.”
He blinked. “Why not?”
“Because you terrorize them.”
“I don’t.” He shakes his head.
“I’m not arguing with you, son.”
“Fine.” He nods in relent. “So…where’s she gonna sleep?”
“Your room.”
The words landed like a brick to the skull.
Leehan straightened slowly, arms going stiff at his sides. “My…room,” he repeated, making sure he hadn’t misheard. “As in—my room, where I sleep. Where my stuff lives. Where I—exist.”
“Yes,” his mother said simply, drying her hands on a towel. “She needs a space that’s clean and quiet. And yours is the only one that makes sense.”
He stared at her, chest tight. “Mom, my room is my only space. The only place in this entire house that’s not—” he gestured around at the chaos, the abandoned toys, the scribbles on the fridge, the sticky handprints on the cupboards— “that.”
“I know,” she said, and her voice wasn’t sharp this time. It was steady. Unmoving. “Which is why I’m trusting you with this.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. The weight behind her words was unmistakable.
“She’s coming here alone,” Mrs. Kim continued softly. “No family. No support system. No familiarity. She’s walking into a country she doesn’t know, a language she barely uses, a school she’s hardly seen. She’s still a child to her mother, no matter how old she is.”
Leehan’s breath stalled.
“She needs safety,” she said. “And stability. She needs someone who won’t overwhelm her or talk down to her. At least give her sympathy.”
He pressed his lips together, throat tightening.
“And you,” she added, looking him in the eyes now, “are the one I trust the most to give her that. Not because you’re perfect. But because you’re my son and I raised you to take care of people always.”
Silence.
A thick, heavy silence.
He let out a slow breath. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll move my things.”
Mrs. Kim nodded, relieved—but not triumphant. “Thank you.”
He stared at the floor, at the laundry basket, at nothing in particular.
“…What’s she like?” he asked after a moment. Not annoyed. Not sarcastic. Just…trying to understand the person stepping into his life.
His mom paused, thinking. “Smart,” she said. “Kind. Quiet. More observant than she lets on. But she's a nice girl, you guys would like her.”
He nodded once.
Then again.
“Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll be good to her.”
“I know you will.”
A beat passed—the kind that settles into the air, makes everything feel more real.
“What time does her flight get in?” he asked.
“One hour.”
His eyes widened. “Mom—”
“Go,” she said, waving him off. “Take the car, I’ll move your stuff.”
He grabbed his keys, heart pounding as he jogged toward the door.
And as he makes his way out to the beat up driveway, he comes across you walking up his porch. He steps back, soft laughter as he puts his hands up in defense. “Woah…gonna bite my head off, Chihuahua?”
“Shut up,” you cross your arms—rolling your eyes as you resist a laugh. “I left my bag here yesterday. I’ve come to retrieve it.”
He nods affirmatively, brushing past you as he gently yanks a curl of yours on his way down the steps. “It’s in my closet.”
You reached down to swat his arm. “Where you going?”
He turns back, one foot already on the next step, breath still a little fast from the sprint out of the house. The sunlight catches on his face, softening everything he’s trying so hard to keep steady.
“Airport,” he says simply.
Your brows pull together. “Now?”
He huffs—short, almost incredulous—as if he just realized the timing doesn’t make any damn sense either. “Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Apparently I’m a morning person now.”
You blink at him. “Since when?”
“Since today,” he says, dead serious.
There’s no joke behind it. No smirk. He’s standing there looking wired, focused, too awake for someone who hasn’t even had breakfast yet.
You tilt your head, studying him. Something in his voice is different—quieter, heavier. “Family?”
He hesitates. Just long enough for the truth to flash across his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Kind of.”
“Can I ride with you?” You shrug, “I’m bored and I have literally nothing else to do.”
He jerks his chin toward the driveway, already moving, steps quick and purposeful. You follow him down the porch, your shoulder brushing his for half a second—a tiny contact, but he feels it. You can tell by the way his breath stutters before he masks it. Annoyance but patient in some way.
The car beeps unlocked.
He opens the passenger door for you without a word. You lean against the door before you sit, preparing to ask him something. But as you do, a voice calls out:
“Oi! Where are you two off to?”
You both turn to see Shota coming from across the street—backpack in tow as he bounces over. His dyed, blond hair shining in the beaming sun. “You two know I have attachment issues.”
You laugh softly as you brush your hair off your shoulder. “Ask your best friend, his mood is shot.”
Leehan sighed, “my mood isn’t anything, Bun—I just have to go and you’re making me late.”
“Late for what?!” Another voice calls across the street.
It was weird, yet convenient how your guys’ houses were lined up. The best way to describe it would be akin to a square and its vertices. Right beside Leehan was your house. Directly parallel to you was Riki, then parallel to Leehan was Shota.
Riki jogs down his driveway, one hand raking through his hair, the other shoving his keys into his pocket like he’s already annoyed at the world and hasn’t even reached the sidewalk yet.
He eyes the three of you gathered around Leehan’s half-opened car door. “What’s happening?” he asks, breath a little uneven like he’d been rushing.
Shota throws his hands up dramatically. “A betrayal is happening. They were about to leave me. Again.”
Leehan’s jaw flexes. “No one’s betraying anyone. I just have somewhere to be.”
Riki’s gaze flicks to you, quick and sharp, then to Leehan—reading the tension instantly. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Leehan mutters.
You answer for him. “He’s lying. Obviously. He opened the car door for me without calling me a dickhead. I’m concerned.”
Shota gasps like you’ve announced a national emergency. “Oh that’s new.”
Leehan drags a hand down his face. “Can you three—just this once—not be—”
“Entertaining?” Shota offers.
“Observant?” Riki adds.
“Inconveniencing?” you finish.
He looks heavenward, praying for strength. Then he jerks his thumb at the car. “Just get in. All of you.”
“Yay!” You and Shota cheered simultaneously. Riki smiled softly as he opened the back passenger door for the older guy to get in.
Shota slid in the backseat, putting his backpack down by his feet—settling into the seat as he fanned himself. “Can you turn the AC on? It’s like a toaster oven in here.”
Leehan makes his way around the van. “The car’s not even on yet, genius.”
Riki snorts, “move over,” he tapped the top of the van as he waited for Shota to shimmy to the other side. But before he could even put his leg in, a deep, raspy voice—diagonal from the driveway called out for him. “Riki!”
All four of your guys’ attention went in the direction of the sound. The birds chirped over the white noise of the block as somehow the sky clouded over. Reo.
You sighed, rolling your eyes as you turned your back again. Leaning against the car with your arms crossed.
Reo was already discussed previously. Not in any depth anyway because as much as he seemed to matter to Riki—he mattered to you as well.
As an enemy.
As an older brother, though, he was Riki’s sole caregiver and provider amidst their parents not being around. While Reo had to juggle being fifteen and taking care of his ten year old brother, he ensured that Riki was in school, was fed, and had what he needed to essentially have a normal childhood just as anyone else.
However, as Riki grew and started to demand (not literally, but metaphorically) the presence of their mom and dad—Reo didn’t know how to handle it. Couldn’t fathom or configure the idea of wearing so many different hats at once. Mom, dad, brother, nurse, personal wallet, cheerleader, chauffeur until Riki was sixteen, the list goes on.
Leehan, Shota, and you had always had the luxury of support by parental figures—something Riki didn’t have—but it was always afforded to him. Never did any of your parents turn him or Reo away for anything because they knew how hard their circumstances were. But no one dared to call social services because it meant that both boys would be lost in the abyss of the American foster care system and of course, everyone has heard such great things about what happens there.
If either of them needed food because Reo’s check didn’t clear—they got it. Christmas gifts. Clothes. Hot water. Anything in the world, those boys had it as long as you, Shota, and Leehan did.
But once Reo graduated high school (with a C average, just by the skin of his teeth)—he knew to follow in the legacy that his father had left him with—R12. Leaving him to stay in Freeridge and get Riki through middle school, high school, and everything else.
And things seemed fine. Reo was going to work. Participating in the gang dealings that both boys seemed to be familiar with but the older they got, the more the cracks started to show.
Riki learned how to be multiple people at once—a friend, support system, an advocate for all three of you…and Reo’s little brother, the kid everyone in R12 kept an eye on because Reo would set the whole block on fire if anything happened to him.
But it was a lot more complex than that. Reo ensured Riki wasn’t touched, ensuring he didn’t lose his respect. But something shifted once Riki turned fifteen.
He stopped caring about the sanctity of Riki’s youth. Disregarded everything that mattered when it came to his brother.
Riki had dreams. Ones that seemed small to others but too big for Freeridge.
And it was simple: make it out.
Since he was a kid, Riki had wished upon a star, tossed a coin into a fountain, closed his eyes extra hard during every birthday wish, wrote a million times under his pillow—for his entire life—the same wish.
To leave.
Not to abandon, not to forget—just to escape the gravity of a place that had never loved him gently. Riki wanted sunlight without bars across it, air without someone else’s name on it, choices that weren’t choreographed by a gang legacy he never asked to inherit.
Reo saw that dream as an insult.
Because to him, leaving meant rejecting the only thing he had ever been good at. The only thing that kept a roof over their heads. The only thing that made him valuable in a world that chewed him up at fifteen and spit him out as a man.
So when Riki talked about getting out—going to college, traveling, anything that didn’t involve the R12 sign—Reo didn’t hear hope. Just betrayal.
And that’s when the shift happened. No more rides to practice. No more checking if Riki ate. No more showing up to school events pretending he wasn’t bone-tired.
Instead—cold orders. Sharp warnings. A hardness that didn’t belong in a home but lived there anyway.
Reo stopped seeing Riki as a kid. Stopped seeing him as a brother. Started seeing him as a liability—someone who wanted to run from the very life Reo had bled to keep intact for him.
Riki never said it out loud, not to you, not to anyone. But every time Reo’s voice cut through the street, every time those R12 men watched him too closely, every time his shoulders went rigid—
You could tell. Because you knew these three like yourself. If you were an impulsive, neurotic, hotheaded chihuahua then Leehan was a pressured, ticking time bomb with oldest sibling syndrome. Shota was a mildly deluded individual that blocked out the negativity in the world by living by his rules. Like Riki was a hurricane contained in a bottle—soft and mesmerizing one moment, destructive and untamable the next. He absorbed everything around him—the chaos, the expectations, the danger—and carried it with a grace that no one else could sustain. But inside, that wish to escape, to be free of Freeridge and the shadows of R12, was a constant pressure, a weight that bent him without breaking him.
And you could see it in the way he flinched when Reo’s name was mentioned, in the subtle tension in his shoulders when someone lingered too long on the block, in the way he smiled a little too hard, laughed a little too loud, just to convince himself he was still okay.
He was caught between worlds: the world he wanted, and the world that had claimed him before he even knew how to fight for himself. And you—well, you understood that storm better than anyone.
The older brother in question jogged across the street. His gaze never left his little brother the whole time. When he finally made it to the driveway, Reo—now twenty-five—stood before you and everyone.
Him and Riki were exactly the same height. A nice six foot one. Reo’s presence hit like a wall, all angles and edges and deliberate weight. His hair, dark and cropped close on the sides, caught the sun in streaks of bronze where it had faded at the tips. His jaw was sharp, square, defined, with the faintest shadow of stubble that made him look older than his twenty-five years. Eyes like storm clouds—a very dark brown—hovered between calculating and exhausted, the kind of eyes that had seen too much too young.
Broad shoulders, strong arms, and a chest that filled out his fitted shirt made him look like he could carry the weight of the street on his back. Even his stance—feet planted just so, fists loose but ready—spoke of someone who had fought to keep everything together, someone who moved with both authority and quiet warning. Every detail about him—the set of his brow, the crease at the corner of his mouth, the way his gaze flicked to Riki first—was a reminder that he wasn’t just an older brother. He was a force.
But he wasn’t impolite.
He scanned the rest of you three with a masked smile. Bending down slightly, poking his head into the van—he caught Shota’s view. “Hi, Shota.”
The guy nodded silently, waving his hand as he put one of his wired earbuds in.
“Donghyun,” he nodded as he looked at Leehan—who leaned against the car with his hands and opened his palm. Hardly smiling but just enough to acknowledge the elder.
Then finally, his eyes fell to you. More like your side profile as you refused to even look at him. The last time you laid eyes on him was the day you left for college—so nearly a year ago. You hadn’t visited during breaks, money was too tight for you to come back and forth.
Watching him stand on the sidewalk beside his younger brother as the three of you all drove onto the next part of your lives was probably the most sadistic thing you’ve seen out of him. The memory was like a picture in your mind. Him, resting a hand on Riki’s shoulder as their eyes hadn’t left you. Like he was reminding him of what he never wanted to come to fruition for Riki.
“Bunnyboo…” he called out with a smile. “You look beautiful. I’ve missed you.”
You stiffened at the voice, the familiar tone threading through the warm morning air, carrying all the weight of his presence. That smile—something in it was the same as before, teasing yet measured, like he had rehearsed it a thousand times to keep control—but there was an undercurrent there, an edge of something almost vulnerable, something carefully tucked beneath the force of his usual armor.
“Hm.” You inhaled, arms tightening as you crossed them.
He probed on though, “you’ve grown. You still carry your Bratz dolls in your backpack?”
You scoff, smacking your teeth. “That was like fifteen years ago.”
Reo chuckled, a low, controlled sound that somehow carried both amusement and a trace of disbelief. “That long, huh? I feel like that’s the kind of thing that sticks with you forever,” he said, eyes flicking briefly to the gold, nameplate necklace with your actual name on it. The one you wore every single day since you were a kid. There was a softness in that look, fleeting, but it was there—an acknowledgment of the person you were then, the person you’d become.
You rolled your eyes, brushing a curl behind your ear. “Yeah, well, some of us grow up,” you said, trying for a casual tone, though your voice carried just enough bite to hint that you weren’t entirely relaxed.
He took your jab and let it roll down his back. His tongue poked his cheek as he turned to Riki. “We got business.”
Riki’s shoulders tensed, the familiar flicker of unease crossing his features. “Business? Now? At nine in the morning?” His voice carried a note of incredulity that didn’t quite mask the edge of confusion.
Reo didn’t look at him, didn’t even blink. His gaze was fixed, sharp, deliberate, scanning the block like he already knew every corner, every potential obstacle. “Now,” he said again, voice low but iron-strong. “We move fast, or it’s done before it even starts.”
You leaned back slightly against the car, arms still crossed, observing the quiet, absolute command in his posture. Every movement was deliberate, economical—Reo didn’t waste energy on theatrics. Even the way he stood beside Riki, that protective shadow, made your stomach knot. The tension wasn’t just between the brothers—it radiated outward, threading through the air around everyone else, a subtle, undeniable warning.
Riki exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Okay…” He turned to the three of you with a look of frustration. “I’ll see y’all when you get back.”
You watched him hesitate for a moment, shoulders stiff, jaw tight, before he finally gave a small nod. “Be careful,” you muttered under your breath but loud enough for him to catch.
Reo’s eyes flicked toward you, the storm behind them softening just a fraction, like he recognized the weight of your gaze. No words, just a subtle tilt of his head—a silent acknowledgment. Then he turned, and with practiced precision, started walking down the street, Riki falling into step beside him like a shadow, smaller but unwilling to be left behind.
The van sat there idling, warm in the morning sun. You pressed your palms into each, trying to calm the sudden tightness in your chest. The air seemed heavier, charged, as if the space around them carried all the years of responsibility, anger, and unspoken plights between the brothers.
Shota leaned back against the seat, muttering, “Damn. That’s…intense.”
Leehan just shook his head, lips pressed together. “Yeah. That’s Reo for you. Always been that way.”
You stayed quiet, watching the figures recede, knowing that once they disappeared around the corner, the street would feel smaller—and emptier—but the echo of their presence would linger, a quiet warning you couldn’t ignore.
—
The drive south to LAX was relaxing, you on the aux as some music played comfortably. As Leehan pushed the van down the freeway, you hummed along to the music as you watched the world pass you by.
But of course, silence was always short-lived as it pertained to your friends. “So, I assume you and Riki are together again?”
You turned to him with a flabbergasted, yet offended expression. “I’m sorry?”
His eyes widened, tightening on the steering wheel. “I said, ‘I assume you and Riki are hanging out together again?”
“Oh…”
“...as in, you guys aren’t fighting anymore?” He leaned back as he signaled to move to another lane.
“Oh…yeah.” You nodded as your heart rate simmered a little. “Yeah, we squashed it.”
“So what happened?” He said absentmindedly as he turned the music down a little so he could hear you properly.
You gulp, keeping your eyes looking out of the window. “Nothing. We just agreed to…chill, you know. No beef.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Leehan laughed, “you were at his throat less than a day ago and now things are just squashed? What actually happened between you guys? Is what he said true or not?”
This was the thing you hated about lying: the guilt of it. But the fact that you had to think of a lie, say it convincingly, then remember it was entirely too stressful.
Riki didn’t even want to keep this up. He wanted to show you off, hold your hand walking down the street, kiss you whenever he felt like. Not in the dark or behind closed doors within the confines of your rooms or the city’s outskirts. But of course, he was a simple man—and entirely too easy. Whatever it took to be with you, he’d do it.
But your fear of commitment and judgment superseded anything that either of you could want.
“No, we didn’t sleep together.” You said with finality. “He just said that because some of the idiotic R12 members were talking about getting at me. So he—” You used air quotes, “‘put a claim on me’ so that they wouldn’t try anything.”
“So why didn’t he tell us that he did that?”
You somehow reached a flow state. “Because he knows how you two run your fat mouths. It’s just better if everyone thinks the same thing, I guess. That way he doesn’t have to remember who knows what.”
Leehan’s brow arched so high it was nearly touching his hairline. “Mhm. Right. Because he’s soooo organized like that.”
You shot him a glare sharp enough to slice bread. “Can you just drive?”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes still on you. “Nah, because something’s not adding up. Riki said one thing. Shota and I heard another. You acted one way. And now this?” He motioned in a circle at your whole existence. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar,” you snapped.
“So you admit that you’re lying?”
You groaned, sliding lower into your seat until you were practically melting into the upholstery. The anxiety sat in your chest like a cinder block. Keeping a secret relationship hidden from a man like Leehan—who was basically a human lie detector fused with a nosy aunt—felt like trying to hide a fireworks show behind a napkin.
And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong. Your lies were getting thinner, shakier, stitched together by panic. You felt the guilt creeping up your throat—warm, prickly, accusing.
Leehan glanced at you. His voice softened just enough to unsettle you. “Are you scared of him?”
You blinked. “What? Who?”
“Reo.”
You laughed, actually laughed at how off he was. “Please, that dickhead has nothing to do with this.” You folded your hands over your stomach as you crossed your legs in an effort to warm them from the blasting air conditioner. “He doesn’t scare shit over here.”
“So what are you hiding and why lie about it?”
“Oh my god,” you groaned. “Bitch you are so fucking nosey!”
Leehan grinned like a cat who’d finally cornered a mouse. “Yeah. And?”
“And mind your damn business!”
“It is my business,” he argued, turning onto the main road like he wasn’t detonating your blood pressure. “Because every time you lie, Riki acts weird, and when Riki acts weird, I get dragged into some emotional bullshit I didn’t ask for.”
You clutched your chest dramatically. “So now I’m inconveniencing you?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even hesitate. “My chakras are weighed down.”
You stared at him. “You don’t even know what chakras are.”
“I know yours are clogged with secrets.”
You slapped his arm—not hard, but enough to make him jerk the wheel a little. “Leehan!”
“Hey! Assaulting the driver is crazy.”
“Being the IRS of my personal life is crazy.”
He snorted, glancing over at you for half a second. “So you admit there’s something to tax?”
Your jaw dropped. “I didn’t say that!”
“You said it with your face.”
“Shut up.”
He hummed, smug, fingers tapping the wheel like he’d solved a crime. “One day, you’re gonna tell me.”
“One day,” you shot back, “I’m gonna push you out of a moving vehicle.”
“Good,” he said, nodding. “Maybe the fall will knock the truth loose.”
“I wish death on you. A slow, agonizing death. But until then,” you sighed. “Which terminal are we headed to?” You gestured ahead to the iconic big white letters that indicated your arrival.
“Terminal B…” Leehan sighed as he leaned forward, inspecting the bustling airport and the pedestrians making their ways through.
You reached behind you to grab Shota’s backpack, shuffling through it for his bag of sour gummy worms. The owner of said bag extended his hand for you to give him some, not even speaking because he had his own music playing.
You dropped a few gummy worms into Shota’s waiting palm, then tore one in half with your teeth like a feral squirrel. “Thank you for your service,” you mumbled around the candy.
Shota gave you a thumbs-up without looking up, completely zoned out to whatever playlist he lived on. You swore the guy could sleep through a tornado but wake up instantly if someone opened a bag of snacks within a five-mile radius.
Leehan eased the car into the arrival lane, glaring at the chaos like it personally offended him. “Why are airports always like fever dreams?” he muttered. “Every time I come here, I lose five years of my life.”
“Who are we scooping anyway?” You say through a mouthful of candy. “An uncle or some shit?”
“No, my cousin—well…she’s not blood but…” He shrugs as he grabs a gummy from the bag.
You snorted, “I got you, that’s just how people of color work, I guess. Everyone’s a cousin.”
He nodded, “yeah, but this is my first time meeting her. Her mom and my mom went to high school together way back when. Then they moved and shit, now her daughter is going to uni here in the States. Or…will be.”
You furrowed your brows inquisitively, “where are they from?”
“Honduras.”
Your brows lifted in surprise as a smile hit your face. “Oh snap, look at Mrs. Kim knowing people. Mrs. Worldwide.”
Leehan snorted, shaking his head. “Please don’t gas her up like that. She already thinks she’s Pitbull.”
You laughed, leaning back in your seat. “No, because I know she be telling people she’s multicultural just for the fun of it.”
“She does,” he said flatly. “She told her nail tech last week she ‘turns up’ when she listens to reggaetón. Like who says that anymore?”
You slapped his arm. “Shut UP.”
He groaned. “I was like, Mom…you don’t even know who Bad Bunny is.”
Shota, still munching gummies with one earbud in, glanced up. “She thought his name was Benny.”
You wheezed. “Isn’t his name Benito? She was close.”
“Not the point.” Shota smiled, taking another gummy worm. “I just don’t get how…”
Shota’s joke faded into the background, but you barely heard it. Something in your chest shifted—tightened—like a knot being pulled slowly, deliberately, until it demanded to be acknowledged. Everything seemed like white noise.
You watched the crowds outside the car, people dragging luggage, hugging relatives, starting trips, ending them. Moving. Living. And it hit you—hard—that Riki should’ve been here. Should’ve been laughing with you all. Complaining about the LA traffic. Stealing Shota’s gummies and flicking his ear just because he could.
He should’ve been in this moment.
But he wasn’t. Because he was stuck.
Your fingers curled around the bag of candy, knuckles whitening. The thought rose before you could stop it, blooming sharp and aching in your chest. You didn’t say anything at first—just let the idea sit there, heavy, terrifying, obvious.
You didn’t even realize you’d spoken until you heard your own voice.
“…I want him out.”
Leehan looked over. “Who?”
“Wait, I didn’t even do anything…” Shota said with a frown.
You kept your eyes straight ahead. If you looked at either of them, you’d talk yourself out of it. “Riki. I want him out of R12.”
Shota sat up, the surprise on his face softening into something more careful. No jokes this time. No easy shrug.
The words kept coming, quiet but sure, like you’d been holding them back for years.
“I keep thinking,” you said, voice low, “about all the things he’s missing. All the things he’ll keep missing because Reo won’t let him go.” You shook your head slightly. “I can’t stand the idea of him still being there while the rest of us get to…grow. Move forward. Be young. Be stupid. Be normal.”
Leehan’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t interrupt. Neither did Shota.
“He had the best grades out of all of us in school. Joined clubs, made friends, community service, everything. All down the drain because his selfish older brother couldn’t see past Freeridge. But it’s time for me to be selfish, guys, because I want more. For him.”
You swallowed hard. “And I don’t know…maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s impossible, but I just—” you exhaled shakily. “I keep thinking there has to be a way to get him out. Really out. A way to give him a chance at the life he keeps pretending he doesn’t want.”
Shota let out a slow breath through his nose, like he was trying to process ten different emotions at once. “You’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he murmured.
You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.
Because once the thought crawled into your chest, it refused to leave—this stubborn, aching truth that wouldn’t unclench its grip. Riki laughing on a couch that wasn’t surrounded by lookouts. Riki sleeping without one eye open. Riki showing up to dumb little hangouts like this one, rolling his eyes, complaining about the snacks. Riki choosing things instead of surviving them.
You blinked hard. “I hate that I’m starting to picture him as a memory while I’m still alive.”
Shota’s jaw flexed. Leehan’s stare stayed glued to the road, but his knuckles had gone white.
“He’s not gone,” Leehan said quietly.
“No,” you agreed, throat tight, “but you know how that life is. You either end up in prison, dead, or both. And I don’t even want to think about either.”
Shota shifted, like the words physically hit him. “Don’t say that,” he muttered, but it wasn't a reprimand—it was fear.
You stared down at your hands. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Neither of them did.
The signs passed, blocking the sun for a moment—casting a shadow across the windshield, washing the car in gold every few seconds. Each flash made the ache in your chest feel sharper, more real, like the world itself was trying to illuminate a truth you’d been avoiding.
“I keep replaying stupid things,” you said softly. “Like him talking about wanting to visit a college campus. Or saying he wanted to see snow for the first time. Or—” your breath trembled, “—how he used to say he wanted to get out of Freeridge before he turned twenty-one.” You swallowed again, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “He says it like a joke now. Like something he already accepted he’ll never have.”
Shota looked out his window, voice barely above a whisper. “He stopped talking about the future altogether.”
That got you. A quiet, painful exhale left your lungs. “Exactly,” you murmured. “It’s like he’s already grieving a life he hasn’t even lived.”
Leehan finally spoke, low and certain. “Then we don’t let that happen.”
You turned your head, heart thudding. He wasn’t saying it like a fantasy. He was saying it like a plan.
“We figure out a way,” he continued, eyes still on the road but voice steady, “to give him a real shot. A clean break. Something he can’t walk away from, even if he tries.”
✰ synopsis: four childhood best friends thought distance wouldn’t change them. but when you come back home to freeridge after your first year of college, a buried secret and gang politics collide—testing loyalty, love, and the block that raised them.
✰ run time: 17.1k words
✰ mpaa rating: TV-MA — fictional universe (on my block / freeridge, california.), coming of age kinda, found family, morally grey characters, swearing, “secret relationship”, implied sexual content, angst, fluff, banter, drug use and mention, underage drinking, distorted self-image, jealousy, situationship to lovers IM SORRY PLEASE, arguments, gun violence and gang shit, crying, summerween (as per gravity falls love that show), socioeconomic commentary, crude humor (some boundary pushing, but what is art without such), breaking the 4th wall a lil bit (it’s kinda fun i promise)
viewer's discretion advised.
✰ authors note!! (important): hey, welcome to the circle. this, alongside other fics in the future, will be apart of my “as seen on tv” series where i essentially make fics based on my favorite shows! i rmm doing this during my wattpad days but now it has gotten a name and a full blown makeover seeing as i am way more skilled than i was 5 years ago (or at least i’d like to think so).
these fics will literally be a mixture of me writing from memory of the show’s events, creating new scenes and dialogue (obvi, this won’t be a fic ON the show), creating whole new tales but just within the universe itself, etc. some may be oneshots, some may not be! i will make that judgment based on if i feel the fic calls for it or not. but the circle will have more than one. and there will be an upload schedule upon completion (i'm far along already dw), so make sure you turn that tv on.
this is a pilot!! more so, a temperature check to see how we're liking it thus far and if you want more.
you do not need to have watched the shows to understand fics. these can be read separately from the shows. though, it would be more fun!! i’d always recommend on my block as it is one of—if not—the greatest netflix series of all time. it’s all up to you.
soundtrack to enhance reading experience: spotify | apple
You’ve only been back in Freeridge, California for ten minutes and somehow your feet already know where to go.
You grew up on this block—this cracked sidewalk, that bent stop sign, the same sun-faded corner store where y’all used to beg for Slurpees after school. Childhood friends turned family: you, Shota, Leehan, and Riki. Neighbors since tricycles and scraped knees.
You walk up to Leehan’s house—still has the red folding chairs on the porch, the one with the wind chime—and see him and Shota inside through the window, arguing over something stupid like always.
At this point, you knew this house like you knew your own. If you were ever even really there anyway. You’ve spent summers, weekdays, weekends, school years—almost—in this home and it got to a point where you didn’t even have to knock. And if you did, then the door would always open for you because you had a key.
With a lively spirit, you barged inside—duffel bag in tow as you saw two out of your three best friends politicking on the couch. “Hey, assholes!”
Leehan paused in his movements, eyes widening just a bit before his jaw slacked. “You’re back…”
You dropped your duffel by the door with a now deflated look. “Did you expect me to stay in the woods for the whole summer?”
“Yes—I mean, no. No…we didn’t—no we didn’t. Right, Shota?” He turned to the younger, watching as he was on his phone—not even minding the interaction. “Dude!” Leehan snapped as he beamed a pillow at him.
With a thud, Shota’s phone hit the couch. “Yo—oh hey,” he looked at you with a smile. Standing up, opening his arms as he walked closer to you. “I missed you, Bun.”
“Yeah, at least someone did—ooh!” You grunted as Shota strong-armed you, wrapping his arms around you as he lifted you off your feet. “I missed you too, bro.”
He smiled at the words, “you smell like an airplane.”
Laughing, you wrapped your arms around him. Shota wasn’t always the brightest, but he was bright in every other way.
Shota, Leehan, and you all returned from your first years of college and though you didn’t get home right away—you were offered by your school’s writing club to go on a retreat with them after the semester finished. It was fun, enriching, and about five weeks. In a way, it was like summer camp for adults and it was nice to just unplug for a while after a hectic semester.
All three of you attended different schools. And while that was a hard summer’s end—you knew in some way it’d be good for you. The longest all four of you had been apart was a singular day since you were all seven years old. So eleven years later—after endless sleepovers, fights, makeups, robbing convenience stores blind, and late night phone calls—saying goodbye and seeing your cars go in different directions was the hardest thing you ever had to do.
“I missed you guys,” you said softly.
Leehan sighed, giving up his seeming distressed demeanor. “We missed you too,” he joined you and Shota as he wrapped his arms around you both. “How was everything?”
You were too enraptured in the comfort of being in the arms of your friends to realize that there was a third of your heart missing. “It was good…Learn-y, school-y.” Your feet still dangled in the air as you scanned the room; even eyeing the bathroom door for a moment hoping someone would come out. But knowing that it was early noon—Leehan’s little siblings were at day camp and his parents were working. None of them would be back until later in the day.
But even then, something felt hollow. Wrong. And you knew it when you only felt two pairs of arms around you. “Where’s Riki?”
Leehan’s arms stiffened first.
Not dramatically—just this tiny, telltale pause like his brain hit a speed bump. Shota let you down from his hug a little too fast, brushing his hands on his shorts like he suddenly needed something to do.
You frowned. “Hello? I said: where’s Riki?”
Leehan cleared his throat. “Uh…he’s, um…not here.”
“No shit. Where is he?”
Shota wouldn’t look at you. He kept glancing at Leehan like he wanted permission to talk.
“Guys.” You crossed your arms. “I’ve been home for ten minutes and you’re both acting like I asked you who killed Kennedy.”
Shota chimed in, “wasn’t it Harvey Lee Oswald?”
Leehan’s eyes didn’t leave you as he put his finger on Shota’s chest. “Lee Harvey Oswald and Riki’s…just not really around.” He shook his head as he walked to plop down on the couch.
You tilted your head in confusion. Eyes squinting as you had trouble connecting the dots. “What does that even mean? Did he move or some shit?” Crossing your arms as you approached him.
“We just—just drop it, man.” Leehan sighs. “Riki’s irrelevant.”
Your lips parted in surprise as you drew back. “Since—what? He’s been our best friend and neighbor since we were in the second grade and he’s suddenly old news?”
Shota interjected, “can you guys walk with me to the store? I want some chips.”
Without looking at him, you nodded to the door.
Shota tugged his hoodie on and headed out first, leaving you and Leehan in this thick, uncomfortable silence that felt wrong in a house you practically grew up in.
The walk to the corner store was familiar—same cracked pavement, same graffiti that had been there since middle school—but the energy between the three of you was off. Shota kept kicking a pebble like it personally offended him. Leehan jammed his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders tight.
Halfway down the block, you tried again.
“So we’re really not talking about it?”
Leehan exhaled hard through his nose. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
You snorted. “You’re lying. You’re bad at it. And you only get this weird when it has to do with some type of drama.”
Shota slowed his steps just enough for you to catch up. “Look…things got messy while you were gone.”
“What does that mean?”
Another shared look. You hated that look. It meant you’re not gonna like this.
Leehan ran a hand through his hair. “He wasn’t…he wasn’t really hanging with us much. We barely see him anymore.”
“So? We were away. He stayed back because of his stupid ass brother. We know that.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes.
Reo, Riki’s older brother, is heavily involved with a local gang—R12.
R for the family’s first initial. 12 for the street you lived on.
The kind everyone on the block pretends not to see but knows better than to cross. The name carries weight. Trouble, too.
When junior year rolled around, all four of you discussed college and looked forward to moving onto the next chapter of your lives. Shota, Leehan, Riki, and you all thought about attending the same school. Just fun, adulthood, parties, no rules.
But senior year happened and things got serious. Reo was all Riki had. Their mother passed years ago, father was hardly around and Reo had to sacrifice school to follow his birthright: the gang. The same gang everyone warned you about, the same one Riki swore he’d only ever be “adjacent” to.
It wasn’t a choice—more like gravity. Reo demanded more, and Riki got dragged with him. It started small. Doing quick runs, disappearing in the middle of sleepovers, seeing him with small bruises on his ribs.
While the three of you were filing your FAFSAs, Riki hadn’t even made his login yet. Because he foresaw it, he knew that it just wasn’t in the cards for him. Reo made sure of it.
“Man, fuck him. Who even cares…?” Shota rolled up his sleeves as he kept walking.
You shot him a look. “You care. Don’t start lying now. And don’t talk about him like that.”
He didn’t respond—just kept walking, steps quick, like he could outrun the conversation.
Leehan let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s more than just him going through that. There’s…other stuff.”
“No,” you snapped. “Explain it. Because right now you two sound like you’re mad at him for not juggling college applications while dodging gang members.”
Shota kicked at a crack in the sidewalk. “It’s not that.”
“So what is it?!” You snapped, throwing your hands up in anger. “Bro, I’m tired of the fucking riddles like come on! What the fuck happened between when y’all got back and now?” Like usual, your temper was starting to overcome you but you inhaled sharply before the heat ran down your neck and into your gut. “Why are you guys talking like he’s public enemy number one? You have five seconds before I find him myself.”
Leehan looked at Shota wearily, like he was asking for backup but knew he wasn’t getting any. Shota just shrugged, wide-eyed, like you handle it, bro, and suddenly the air felt thick enough to chew.
Leehan dragged a hand down his face. “Because he said some shit, okay?”
“That’s vague as hell.”
He tried again. “He told us something about you.”
You stared at him. “Like what? That I eat my toenails? That I punch idiots that take too long to get to the damn point? What?”
Shota winced like he knew a bomb was about to go off. “He told us that you two…hooked up before we left this year.”
Your mouth parted, breath catching. For a second, you didn’t even react—your brain was too busy finding scenarios in which it’d be solid to break into his house and strangle him while he was sleeping. Nah…the front door was too obvious. All of our houses only have one floor so maybe taking a crowbar to his window wouldn’t be such a bad start. Then the anger hit—fast, hot, bright.
It shot up your spine, tightened your jaw, curled your hands into fists before you even realized.
Leehan took one look at your face and actually stepped back. “Okay—alright—let’s not do the murdery face right now.”
“Murdery?” you scoffed. “Leehan, I’m being polite. You don’t wanna see murdery.”
Shota nodded too fast. “Yeah, she’s being polite, bro. Super polite.”
You didn’t even hear them. Your mind was still stuck on the image of Riki opening his stupid bedroom window at three in the morning to look at the street…only for you to be standing there with a crowbar like, hey bestie, remember me?
“Look,” Leehan put his hands on your shoulders as you heaved—a way of trying to push the anger below your feet. “We didn’t even believe him. We knew it was some bullshit and he didn’t tell anyone else. Just us and…just…” He pursed his lips. “Don’t worry, it’s contained.”
You shook your head as tears stung your eyes. Fists curled as you closed them and tapped your sneakers against the concrete. “I’m not gonna kill him.”
“Mhm, you’re not gonna kill him.” He encouraged.
“So you’re not gonna kill him?” Shota asked, a look of slight disbelief on his face.
“Not gonna.” You inhaled and exhaled smoothly as you opened your eyes. Letting the cool, Californian breeze run through your curly hair. “I’m going to chop his dick off with a cleaver and feed it to him.” You smiled as you backed up, booking it down the street.
Leehan didn’t even get to yell your name before you took off—full speed, booking it down the block with murder in your eyes.
“BRO—GO! GO!” Shota yelped, sprinting after you like his life depended on it.
Leehan was right behind him. “WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS! YOU CAN’T JUST—HEY!”
But you were already gone—cutting corners, hopping curbs, powered by pure betrayal and cardio-fueled vengeance.
By the time they caught up, you were stomping up Riki’s steps, fist balled, and Shota barely managed to grab your arm as you slammed your hand against the metal screen door.
“RIKI!” you barked, pounding again like the door owed you money. “OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”
The house door hummed a little as there seemed to be music playing from the inside. So loud that you don’t even think your banging made a difference.
“Dude, no—” Leehan walked forward, winded as he tried to reason with you. Shota grabbed him before he could advance further. “Just let her…”
Without another word, you forced the door open. The conversations inside cease abruptly. A huge group of guys, probably ranging from late teens to even late twenties, are scattered throughout the house as your view was clouded by thick, strong smelling smog. Through it, the opened door was able to let some of it out for you to see through. The living room was nearly trashed: beer bottles, ashes, wrappers all over the floor as your brows knitted tighter with every step you took inside.
The air was so dense you could taste it—like someone had hotboxed the entire zip code. The music thumped from somewhere deeper in the house, heavy bass rattling the picture frames and your last remaining nerve.
A couple dudes on the couch froze mid-laugh, eyes widening like they’d just seen a ghost with anger-management issues. One guy halfway through rolling a joint dropped the paper entirely. Another blinked at you through the haze, squinting like you were a hallucination he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Leehan and Shota hovered behind you in the doorway, both coughing like old men who’d wandered into the wrong nursing home.
“Goddamn,” Shota muttered. “Even my eyelashes are high.”
“Focus,” Leehan hissed.
You scanned the room—wrappers, beer bottles, someone’s shoe (just one), a chair flipped upside down like it hadn’t survived the last round of whatever chaos went down. And on the wall, barely visible through the smog, a neon light flickered BEER PONG CHAMPIONS, only barely hanging on.
Your voice came out low, deadly, and devastatingly clear:
“Where is Riki?”
The boys closest to you stiffened like you were pointing a gun, not a question. Their eyes darted toward the hallway as one of them lifted a shaky hand and pointed to the kitchen.
You didn’t even thank him.
You just stepped forward, shoulders squared, fury so sharp it cut through the haze better than the open door ever could.
Behind you, Leehan whispered, “Yeah, no, she’s gonna kill him.”
Shota sighed, resigned. “We can at least make sure it’s quick.” It was weird, kind of bizarre seeing you disappear into the smoke.
“Nuh-uh, I’m not going in there with those people.”
As you walked through and turned the corner to the kitchen, you saw him standing in a small crowd with a blunt hanging from his fingers. The moment his eyes found yours, they glazed over. You weren’t sure what exactly you saw in them. They were red, a little hazy and sleepy looking. But seeing you, blew it all.
“What the fuck is wrong with your brain?” You stomp over to him. “Huh?! I leave for writing camp and this is what I’m welcomed by?”
Riki blinks at you, clearly caught off guard by your sudden appearance. He quickly leaned off the surface as he put the blunt out on the counter—not caring if it left a mark. “Woah, hey—”
One of his other associates, a guy with some ridiculous fine line tattoos, cuts in. He eyes you up and down with a condescending smirk. “Who the hell is this chick?”
You turned to him. “This chick is Riki’s supposed childhood best friend. But I guess he wouldn’t know that.” Your attention goes back to Riki. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Disrespecting me like that to our friends?”
The guy stepped to you, his chest puffing up in anger. “Watch your mouth, little girl—”
“Alright,” Riki shook his head as he shifted his body to him. Shaking his head as his high was now fully blown. “You better watch your mouth,” his finger wagged slowly as it lightly rested on the elder’s chest. “Take that bass out of your voice, thank you.”
The tension in the room thickened, the music playing through the house seemed distant now as you watched Riki come to your defense. It wouldn’t be the first—a part of you hoped it wasn’t the last either. But the air seemed heavier than it did thirty seconds ago.
With a final sneer, the guy brushed Riki’s hand off. “Fine. But keep your friend under control, Riki. We don’t need any outsiders causing any problems.”
“I’m an outsider?!” You laugh humorlessly, “please ask—” you approached him angrily but before you could get closer, Riki grabbed you by the arm—his grip surprisingly strong. Pulling you aside in the kitchen “Yo, yo—calm the hell down.”
“Don’t tell me to—”
“Go outside.” He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t have to. It was the tone. Low. Firm. The same one he used back when you’d get worked up over group project partners who didn’t do their share. Except this time, the stakes were way higher than a C-minus.
You yanked your arm, ignoring how warm his hand had been. “I’m not going outside. I’m not done talking to you—”
“I am not having this conversation in front of them,” he hissed, eyes flicking toward the guys watching like it was premium cable. “Outside. Now.”
“Oh, so you can make decisions,” you snapped. “Interesting. Too bad you didn’t use that skill before opening your fat-ass mouth to Shota and Leehan.”
Riki’s jaw flexed. A muscle jumped. “Bro, you’re gonna get yourself jumped, and then I’m gonna have to deal with that and your yelling. Please. Outside.”
You scoffed, loud. “Cute of you to assume I wouldn’t beat their asses and yours.”
That earned you a few offended scoffs from the crowd.
Riki dragged a hand over his face, muttering something in Japanese you were ninety-eight percent sure meant “please, God, not right now.”
With a tight breath, he stepped closer—close enough that his voice dropped and you felt it more than heard it. “You’re in my brother’s house, surrounded by his people. You can’t just bark at everyone and hope it ends well.”
You glared up at him, heat radiating off your skin like you were a human wildfire. “Funny. Because you didn’t seem to care about the consequences when you told the guys we hooked up.”
His eyes widened—there it was. Guilt. Flashing across his face like lightning. “Out. Side.” He grit out. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
You stared him down, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like you were about to lunge first and think later. But the way he said it—low, edged, almost shaking—
Yeah. You knew that tone too.
So you spun on your heel and shoved past him, letting the front door slam behind you as you stepped into the warm air.
Riki followed seconds later, shutting the door softly this time. The music dulled to a muffled thump, the smoke-heavy air swapping out for something crisp, clearer…but still thick between you two.
He stayed a few steps away, hands planted on his hips as he stared at the concrete like it offended him. His voice was low, steadying. “What the fuck is wrong with your crazy ass?!”
“I’m not crazy! I’m angry! How could sit up with our friends and just—”
“What?! Do what?”
You shoved him hard but he barely stumbled. “Fucking dick! Forget that I ever knew you. I never wanna see or hear from you again! Just…” You hold up your hand in repugnance. “Ugh!” Turning to cross the street to go directly to your house, Riki catches your arm before you can make another step. “Stop, bitch—what part of ‘I fucking hate you’ do you not get?”
“Just let me explain! Look, before you at least try to walk out of my damn life—let me tell you—”
You nudged him. “Fuck off,” walking straight ahead and across the street to your house. Disappearing from the scene without another word. Riki groaned in annoyance, massaging his temples as he stood there. Torn between following you or respecting your desire for space.
But after a moment, he lifts the bottom of his black tank top, sighing into it before he’s approached by Shota and Leehan—both boys coming out of the bushes.
Shota emerged first, twigs in his hair, looking like he’d just barely survived a nature documentary. “…She’s alive, right?” he asked, glancing between the street you stormed across and Riki’s murder-face.
Leehan stepped out after him, brushing leaves off his shirt. “We weren’t hiding—we were…tactically monitoring.”
Riki shot them both a look. “You were crouched behind a bush.”
Shota whispered, “Tactical,” under his breath.
Leehan ignored him, eyes locked on Riki. “So? Did you fix it?”
Riki barked a humorless laugh. “Does it look fixed?”
Both boys assessed him. Shota: “…You look like you got hit by a car.” Leehan: “Twice.”
Riki dragged a hand over his face again, jaw tight, chest still rising a little too fast. “She won’t even let me talk. I tried to explain, and she—” he gestured vaguely toward your house—“walked off like I’m nothing to her.”
“That’s because you messed up,” Leehan said bluntly. “Like really messed up. Like…badly.”
Shota hummed. “Honestly, I thought she was gonna deck you. And I was kinda ready to join in.”
Riki kicked a pebble, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Please, I’ve been kicking your ass since the sandbox.”
Shota bristled instantly. “Bro, that was ONE time—”
“It was every time,” Riki shot back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You used to fall over if someone breathed too hard.”
Leehan waved a hand. “Yo, can we circle back to the part where you detonated your entire friendship in under thirty seconds?”
Riki’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The high was gone. The adrenaline was gone. All that was left was that tight ache in his chest, like someone was pulling each rib inward. “I didn’t mean for her to find out like that,” he muttered.
Leehan deadpanned, “you told us.”
“Yeah, because you’re my boys,” Riki snapped, pacing a short line on the sidewalk. “I didn’t think it’d turn into some weird telephone game while she was gone!”
“But you lied on your dick though. What type of cornball does that?” Shota shrugged obviously.
“I didn’t—” He inhaled, his fists curling up as he punched his palm—leaving it stinging.
Leehan sighed. “So you’re saying y’all fucked. She clearly holds the sentiment that you didn’t so…who’s lying?” He opened his hands, prepared to receive any type of clarity on the situation.
“It’s not even about who’s lying, how do I make her not angry enough to not want to punch me in the face?” He gestured to your house. “Bro, her temper is insane! She’s like a fucking chihuahua—”
Shota clapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes going wide. “Ooh, I’m telling on you.”
Leehan nodded gravely. “Yeah, we’re really gonna jump your ass then.”
Riki groaned, dragging both hands over his face. “I didn’t mean—I’m just saying she bites first and thinks later! She’s like—like—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Shota warned. “For your own safety.”
Riki let his hands drop, exasperated. “I’m being serious. She’s not gonna listen to me. She won’t even stand still long enough for me to get a sentence out. I—” He huffed. “I panicked, okay? I shouldn’t have said we—”
“Hooked up?” Leehan offered.
Riki shot him a dirty look. “Shut up. I know it was stupid.”
Shota crossed his arms. “Bro, she finished the year. She spends an extra few weeks on an isolated writing retreat. Missing time with us for whatever reason. She came home ready to hug you. And instead she got you with a blunt, a house full of gang extras, and a rumor that you two were bumping uglies behind her back. Of course she’s mad.”
Riki winced. “…Yeah.”
Leehan’s voice firm. “So start with the truth.”
Riki blinked at him like that was the most unreasonable suggestion ever. “What truth?”
“The real one,” Leehan said. “You said something happened. She said nothing happened. So which one is it? What are we actually dealing with here?”
Riki’s eyes flicked toward your house again—like the answer was written behind your window.
Shota said absentmindedly, lips pursed as he looked down at the dirt beneath his shoes. “She didn’t say nothing happened.”
“What?” Leehan furrowed his brows.
“She just got mad. She never said what did or didn’t happen.”
Riki walked backwards to his house, arms spread in vindication. “Hm. And you fuckers didn’t believe me.”
Leehan rolled his eyes so hard it was audible. “Relax, Socrates. All she confirmed is that she hates your guts.”
Shota pointed at Riki with a half-shrug. “Yeah, bro, don’t act like this is some big ‘gotcha.’ She didn’t say you were lying…but she also looked ready to kick your shit in.”
Riki dropped his arms, irritation sliding back in. “Still. None of you believed me.”
“Because your track record is dogshit,” Leehan said. “You lie about stupid shit all the time. One time you said you could backflip off Shota’s porch and you landed on his mom’s hibiscus.”
“Hey, that flowerbed recovered,” Riki muttered.
“No, it didn’t,” Shota said. “She still brings it up at family dinners.”
Riki threw his head back with a groan. “Bro, can we stay on topic?”
Leehan crossed his arms. “Cool. That means we’re back to the original question: what actually went down?”
Riki’s jaw ticked. He turned slightly, like the angle would help him dodge the question.
Shota wasn’t letting him. “Bro. We’ve known you since you had Lego hair. Just spit it out.”
A long beat.
Riki’s tongue pressed against his cheek, eyes dropping to the sidewalk. “I’ll catch y’all later.” He turned around fully to walk back up his steps.
“Wh—hey!” Shota calls out.
Shota jogged after him, grabbing the back of his tank like a mom snagging a toddler about to run into traffic. “You are not gonna hit us with the dramatic exit when you’re the one who started this whole novella.”
Riki yanked his shirt free with a scoff. “I didn’t start anything—”
“You literally did,” Leehan yelled from the sidewalk. “You started it with your mouth. And continued it with your mouth. And escalated it with your…actually? Still your mouth.”
Riki spun around, eyes wide, offended. “Can the both of you get off my jock? Damn!”
Shota pointed at him, calm and judgmental like an annoyed substitute teacher. “No. Because you’re being a loser. And I say that with love.”
Riki lifted both hands to his face, dragging them down like he could physically wipe the embarrassment off. “Y’all are the worst friends alive.”
“And yet,” Leehan said, stepping closer, “we’re the only ones who can save your dumbass from getting rocked by your girl.”
“She’s not my girl!” Riki snapped instantly, which absolutely no one believed.
Both boys blinked at him like he’d just said the sky was green.
Shota said. “And I’m Scooby Doo.”
Leehan pointed at the door behind Riki. “Stop stalling. We asked what happened. You clearly don’t want to say it. Why?”
Riki’s throat bobbed.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Shifted his weight.
Looked everywhere except at them.
Then booked it right into the house. Locking the door behind him with a click.
Shota and Leehan just stared at the locked door like it had personally offended them.
A beat.
Then another.
“…Did he just—?” Shota blinked.
“Yeah,” Leehan said flatly. “He ran.”
—
The rest of the night was a weird one. It felt like your college nights. Locked away in your space, biding the time until you were finally set free from the deadlines and expectations and able to leave. To be with your family but your friends most importantly.
All three of those boys meant something differently to you; and it almost made you worry about how your life would’ve transpired if you hadn’t been put next to them for talking too much.
Leehan was the diplomat. The water to everyone’s fire as the eldest one of the quartet. The one that spoke when you four were sent to the principal’s office for setting off a stinkbomb in Mrs. Jenson’s art class.
Shota was always in his own world. But he meant it for all of you. He was nearly impossible to hate to the point where if you were too mean to him, you’d start crying. Not only was he unreasonably peculiar at all times, he was the friend that you’d call in the middle of the night just to talk and he’d answer like he wasn’t mid rapid eye movement.
Riki was always very tricky. The rhyme was not intended, I promise. He was the wild card. The spark. The kid who lived like he had a personal vendetta against boredom. He’d drag you into trouble with a grin, swear you were overreacting, and then somehow sweet-talk the consequences down to a warning. He could charm adults, piss off authority, and get the three of you laughing in the same breath.
But he was also the one who always noticed.
When you were too quiet. When your knee bounced under the desk. When you smiled but didn’t mean it.
He’d nudge your foot with his sneaker. Or toss you a note. Or mouth a stupid joke until you cracked.
Riki was complicated. Not in the dramatic way—more in the “why does your chest feel weird when he looks at you too long” way.
Tonight he had you feeling everything except calm. You lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling like it contained answers or at least a refund policy for emotional tax. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that made your thoughts echo.
Shota, Leehan, Riki. Your boys. Your constants. Your headaches.
You exhaled slowly, sinking deeper into your mattress. You’d kill them before you ever lost them. Probably.
Just then, you nearly jumped out of your skin as you heard a sharp knock on your window. Turning your head to the right, you almost fell off your bed as Riki stood there—tall and looming over your window in a black hoodie.
He lifted a hand and knocked again—lighter this time, like that made it any less insane.
You hissed under your breath, scrambling off the bed and practically tripping over your blanket as you marched to the window. Sliding it up, you whispered harshly, “Are you out of your mind?!”
Riki blinked at you, equal parts guilty and stubborn. “You weren’t answering your phone.”
“So your next idea was breaking into my house?”
“It’s not breaking in if the window’s unlocked,” he shrugged, already hooking his fingers over the sill like he was about to climb in whether you liked it or not.
You smacked his hand. “Try it and I’m calling the cops.”
“You won’t.”
“I absolutely will.”
“You won’t,” he repeated, annoyingly sure.
He leaned closer, breath puffing in the cool night air. “Can you just—” His jaw clenched. “Let me talk to you.”
You crossed your arms. “Talk from out there.”
Riki shot you a look like you were being intentionally difficult. (You were.) “It’s cold.”
“It’s a Californian summer night, it’s sweater weather at best.” You shrug haphazardly.
“I’m anemic.”
“No. I’m anemic.”
“Same difference.”
“Go.” You lightly pushed him back and out of the windowsill. “Don’t you have gang members to go rob a bank with, hard-ass?”
Riki’s face twisted like you’d just accused him of running a puppy-smuggling ring. “Rob a—what?!” he whisper-yelled, gripping the window frame before you could shut it. “You think I’d rob a bank with them? Half those dudes can’t even do basic math!”
“Sounds like a personal problem,” you said, trying to pry his fingers off the sill.
He held on tighter.
You glared. He glared back, a standoff worthy of a Western, except you were in pajamas and he looked like a raccoon rifling through trash.
“Why are you still here?” you hissed.
“Because,” he snapped back in a whisper, “my name is getting dragged through the mud, my best friend hates me, my other two best friends think I’m an idiot—”
“They’re right.”
“—and you still won’t let me explain!”
You gripped the window and started lowering it—slowly, deliberately—like a villain pressing a big red button.
Riki’s eyes went huge. “Don’t you—don’t you dare close this window on me.”
You kept lowering it.
“Bro—” Down another inch.
“Are you serious right now—” Another inch.
He shoved his hand under the frame, blocking it like some tragic action hero trying to stop a garage door from crushing him. “I’m not finished!”
“You said plenty,” you replied, voice flat as drywall. “So we’re even.”
“I didn’t get to say anything!” he whisper-yelled, face squished awkwardly under the descending window. “Okay—I said a little. But not in the way you think—ow, that’s my knuckle—can you just—STOP—”
You paused just long enough for him to yank his hand out before he lost a finger.
He immediately slapped both palms on the windowsill, breathless, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “What is wrong with you?!”
“You came to my window at—” you checked the analog clock on the wall, “—one forty-six in the morning looking like you crawled out of a crime documentary and I’m the problem?”
He pointed at you, indignant. “Yes!”
You pushed the window down another inch. Closing it.
He groaned, “oh come on you can’t—” He watched you lower the blinds, your narrowed eyes the last thing he saw before you closed the curtains. “Please?” Riki sighed, leaning against the window as he called out. “Come on, open up for me? Please—”
The TV you had on only increased in volume.
Riki’s head thunked against the glass like he was trying to transfer his brain cells through osmosis. “Are you—are you SERIOUS right now? You’re gonna drown me out with The OC?!”
You didn’t answer.
Cue the theme music swelling louder.
“Boo.” Knock, knock, knock. “Bunnyboo, I know you hear me.”
Silence.
Another knock, faster. “Bro, don’t do me like this. At least yell at me through the glass. Throw something. Flip me off. Give me anything!”
You turned the TV up another two notches.
He pressed his forehead to the window again, palms flat, voice dropping low—half pleading, half warning. “Don’t make me climb in here. I swear to God, I will break in like a raccoon with a vendetta—”
A pillow smacked the glass from inside—the clanging of the blinds as it hit the hard surface.
He flinched. “…Okay. Message received.”
But he didn’t leave.
He stayed right there—pacing once, twice—before finally planting himself on the little strip of concrete beneath your window, sitting down like he paid rent there. Legs stretched out, hoodie bunched at his elbows, head tipped back against your siding. “Come on…” He whispered to himself.
He rubbed both hands over his face, dragging down like he could physically peel the stress off. “I’m gonna die out here,” he muttered. “She’s actually gonna let me freeze to death on suburban concrete. Damn.”
You muted the TV for two seconds—just long enough for him to perk up—before turning it right back on. He deflated so hard you could practically hear it.
“Wow,” he said to the night sky. “She’s evil. She’s actually evil. And she wonders why I lie awake at night thinking about—”
You whacked the window again with another pillow.
He jumped. “HEY—okay, okay! I take it back! You’re not evil, you’re just—” He paused, searching for something nice. “—temperamental.”
Another pillow hit the glass.
He held both hands up like he was being detained. “How many pillows do you have?!”
For a moment, he just sat there, breathing out shaky frustration, knees bent, arms draped loosely over them. The porch light cast him in soft gold, and for once he didn’t look like the loudmouthed, idiotic menace who’d started this whole mess.
He looked like someone who’d been losing his mind over you all night. And then—quietly, almost too quiet: “…Boo. Please let me fix this.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tapping anxiously.
“I didn’t tell them what you think I did,” he said, softer. “I swear. I didn’t make you look stupid. I didn’t—” His voice caught. “I didn’t disrespect you. Not the way you’re imagining.”
You froze behind the blinds.
He exhaled like the words tasted bitter. “I didn’t even tell them everything. Not the stuff that…mattered.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the roots.
“You think I’m out here playing around,” he said. “But I’m not. And I don’t know how to prove that when you won’t open the damn window.”
You didn’t move. He didn’t expect you to.
He tilted his head back against the siding again, eyes closing, breath leaving him in a quiet, frustrated laugh. “Fine,” he murmured. “I’ll sit out here all night if I have to.”
A pause.
“Knowing my dumbass? I probably will.”
Then, he heard movement from inside the house. Leaning into the siding did he lean up as his heart rate jumped. He stood up, brushing his sweats off as he walked around the front of the house. Only for him to be met with your mom—robe, bonnet, and sleepy-face in tow.
Riki froze mid-step, eyes widening like he’d just walked into a horror scene. “Uh…hi?” His voice cracked somewhere between sheepish and terrified.
Your mom blinked at him, hands on her hips, taking in the hoodie, the sweatpants, the midnight energy radiating off him like a storm cloud. “Riki Nishimura,” she said slowly, voice low but deadly calm. “What exactly are you doing on my lawn at—” she glanced at her phone—“almost two in the morning?”
“I—uh—” He raised his hands like a surrendering cartoon character. “I had to go to the store for Reo. I forgot my keys and now I’m locked out…” This wouldn’t be the first time he’s lied to your mom, it was just about whether she’d believe him. “I called him a few times and he’s not answering so…”
“So…you couldn’t go to either of the other boy’s houses? You had to come to my daughter’s?”
Riki’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He looked like a fish trying to talk its way out of being dinner. “Well—okay—hear me out,” he blurted, already panicking. “I would sleep at Shota’s but he snores insanely loud and the last time I did, he almost suffocated from the pillow I put over his face. And Leehan is entirely too particular about how I sleep like he wants the bed split right in—”
Your mom gave him a look so dry it could’ve dehydrated a cactus. “Inside. Now. Before I start asking real questions.”
Riki nodded so fast his hood nearly flew off. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”
But as he followed her toward the door, he couldn’t stop the tiny, hopeful glance he threw toward your window—praying you hadn’t heard any of that, even though he knew deep down…you definitely had.
He kicked his shoes off as he entered, “I promise I’ll be out—” he whispered.
“Shut up, you’re not a guest here. I love you, goodnight.” She yawned as she walked the opposite way to her room.
“Love you too, sleep well.” He whispered back.
Riki stood in the hallway like someone who’d just been adopted and arrested in the same breath. He watched your mom disappear down the hall, the soft shuffle of her slippers fading.
He took two small steps forward. Then froze when the floorboard under him squeaked loud enough to wake the dead. He saw your shadow moving around in your room from the small sliver of light that poked through the gap of the frame and door itself. His gut told him to speed up down the hall. To which he did—swiftly—before you could close the door on him.
But he beat you there, wedging himself in. “Gotcha.” He beamed, shimmying through as he closed it softly behind him.
“Are you crazy?” You whisper-yelled. “Coming into my house like this? Lying to my mom?!”
“I’m just as crazy as you are.” He unzipped his hoodie, tossing it onto the rack on your closet door. “Don’t act like you haven’t lied to Reo however many times—”
“That’s different. If we’re gonna be out late or something but—”
“Look, I don’t care about any of that. I came to fix things with you.” He stepped forward, ensuring you looked up at him. “Just hear me out…two minutes.” You studied him—hair messy from the wind, shirt rumpled, socks mismatched, eyes big and tired and a little frantic. You hated how familiar he looked in your room. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d slipped in after midnight.
“You get one.” You nod once. “And take off those dirty ass pants.” You sighed as you turned to your drawers. Scouring until you landed on a clean pair of black sweats.
With some rustling behind you, Riki stripped out of his pants. Revealing his black Calvin Klein boxers that you loved so much. That he knew you went crazy for.
“…Did you seriously just—?”
“What?” he said, way too innocent for someone in nothing but briefs in your bedroom at two in the morning. “You told me to take ‘em off.”
“I meant go change in the bathroom, you psychopath.”
He blinked. “Why would I walk all the way to the bathroom when your room is right here?”
You stared at him.
He stared back like this was the most logical sentence any human had ever spoken.
“Riki,” you said slowly, pointing the sweats at him like a weapon. “Put these on before I throw holy water at you.”
He snatched the pair from your hand with a tiny smirk—one he tried (and failed) to hide by looking down. “You always give me the soft ones,” he murmured, pulling them on.
“Well they’re yours…” you sigh, plopping right onto the edge of your bed.
He froze mid–pull, waistband halfway up his hips. “…What?”
You blinked at him. “What, what?”
He let the rest of the sweats snap into place, slow, like his brain was rebooting. “Did you just say they’re mine?”
You groaned, falling back on your palms. “Yes, Riki, congratulations, you own a pair of cotton-poly blend sweatpants. Don’t let it go to your head. So what? You’ve been here like a trillion times.”
But of course it did. You watched the shift happen in real time—his shoulders relaxing, his mouth tugging into that stupid boyish half‑smile he only ever got when he felt special.
He toed his discarded pants into a pile and padded over to you, the soft thud of his mismatched socks making him look criminally at-home in your space. “They’re mine,” he repeated, quieter this time. Like he’d just been handed a family heirloom instead of laundry.
You rolled your eyes. “Riki, don’t get sentimental, it’s literally the third time you’ve forgotten to take them back.”
He dropped down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “Still counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does,” he said, leaning back on his hands so his arm pressed along yours. “‘Cause that means when I come over…you expect me to stay.”
Your breath stuttered—just barely, but enough.
His voice softened. “And I know you’re pissed. And I know you’re pretending you’re not glad I’m here.” A beat. “But you said they’re mine.”
He nudged your knee with his. “Let me explain, Boo. Please.”
Your knee bounced, nerves bubbling up in the pit of your stomach as you looked down at your hands in your lap. “You promised, Riki. That you wouldn’t tell anyone what happened that night.”
Riki’s breath caught—not loud, not dramatic, just this tiny break in his chest like your words had clipped something vital. He didn’t move at first. Just stared at you, jaw set, eyes searching your profile like the truth might be written somewhere on your cheek. “I…I didn’t tell them in a malicious way.”
You turned your head as your anger bubbled up in your stomach. But he knew how to placate you. “No, no, no…listen. Look at me.” He gently grabbed your shoulders to turn you to face him. “Damn, you’re like a pitbull.”
You slapped his hands off your shoulders instantly. “Don’t call me a pitbull.”
“You are a pitbull,” he shot back, whisper‑yelling. “Small. Angry. Bites without warning.”
“I’m literally taller than you,” you snapped.
“You are not taller than—okay, you know what, that’s not the point.” He dragged a hand down his face, regrouping, then looked at you with that maddening mix of exasperation and adoration that made you want to smack him and kiss him in the same breath. “Listen to what I’m saying.”
You crossed your arms so hard your shoulders creaked.
He leaned forward, matching your intensity with his own. “I was just doing it for your protection.” He watched your face blend into confusion. “Not from the guys, from the guys my brother deals with.”
“Um…?”
“While you were gone, some of them were saying that they were gonna get at you when you came back. Obviously by that point, me and you already…” He trailed off. “And it was under wraps. But the way they were talking,” he shook his head, his tongue poking his cheek as he recalled the repulsive language. “I had to ‘claim’ you. Let them know you were mine.”
“I’m not an object, Riki.”
“I know, Boo. I know. I didn’t wanna put you in that position but I had to for the sake of those guys leaving you alone when you got back.”
Your brows pulled together, the heat in your chest shifting—still anger, but now tangled with something colder, sharper. “That’s not protection,” you said quietly.
Riki winced like you’d flicked him right in the soul. “I know. I know that. And if there was any other way—literally any—I would’ve taken it.”
You stared at him, trying to read past the excuses, past the dramatics, past the Riki-isms he wrapped himself in like bubble wrap. But his eyes weren’t dodging. Nor were they defensive. Just tired. And tense. And…a little fearful.
Your voice softened a notch. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
He huffed out a laugh—dry, humorless, one shoulder lifting. “Because you’d say exactly what you’re saying now. That I don’t get to ‘claim’ you. That you’re not a trophy. That you don’t need saving.” He added, “plus by that time you were at your retreat, didn’t have your phone. Was I supposed to send a smoke signal? Letter in a bottle?”
“It would’ve been appreciated.” You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I can’t stand you sometimes.”
Riki groaned, “dude, you’re so immature.”
“Me?!” You gasped, “I’m immature yet you fold under zero pressure and stutter when you lie?”
“Don’t do that. We’re grown now, I shouldn’t even be lying to anybody.”
“Right. So telling your groupies about our night of passion was sooo grown?”
He smiled, boyishly. “So you thought there was passion?” Slowing reaching his hand over to your waist before you smacked it away.
“No! I’m just saying that you’re a dick and never consider me for anything. Not me, Leehan, or Shota.”
Riki looked at you like you had three heads. “Are you—what are you talking about?”
You scoffed, “how did they even find out? Leehan told me that only he and Shota knew. Now you’re saying that—”
“I told them after the fact so they wouldn’t have to hear it from anybody else!” He stood up, “gosh, how low do you think I am? Like, do you really think I’m just some loser?”
Your head snapped up at his tone. He wasn’t yelling, but the hurt in his voice sliced sharp enough.
“Riki, that’s not—”
“No, because you’re talking like I’m out here giving press conferences about our business.” He pointed at himself, brows furrowed, genuinely offended. “You think I’d embarrass you like that? You think I’d embarrass myself like that?”
You opened your mouth, shut it, then crossed your arms tighter. “I think you do dumb things without thinking.”
His laugh was one sharp exhale. “Yeah? So do you.”
“That is not the point—”
“It is,” he cut in, stepping closer, eyes locked on yours with that frustrating intensity that made your stomach flip. “Because you’re acting like I’m some clown who doesn’t care about you. Like I’d run around bragging about us to look cool. That’s not me. That’s never been me.”
You faltered. Just a hiccup. Barely noticeable—except he noticed everything. “So telling people about us having sex on a summer night—”
“God, what do you not get?!” He put his hands out in frustration, “I didn’t tell anyone for fun! Or to lie on my dick—not that it was even a lie. I did it because otherwise, you’d have some weird ass guys pushing up on you and I can’t have that. For my sanity or your safety.”
You sighed dramatically, crossing your arms as you looked away from him. Turning your head away like you were a child.
“Look at me.” Riki said firmly but to no avail.
“Hm.” You shrugged as you crossed your legs. Your bare legs rubbing together over your checkered pajama shorts.
He shook his head. “Dude, you need to grow the fuck up and stop acting like a petulant child.”
You snapped your head back toward him so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. “Petulant?” you echoed, voice shooting up an octave. “Oh, wow. Big word. Did you eat a dictionary for breakfast or—”
“See?” he barked, throwing his hands up. “That! That right there!”
“What right there?!”
“You act like you don’t care but then you get mad like you care the most.” He pointed at you like you were a math problem he’d been failing for years. “You can’t even look at me without doing the dramatic little eye-roll-head-turn combo—”
“I do not—”
“You do,” he cut in, stepping forward, voice firm, eyes sharp. “You’re doing it right now.”
Your jaw dropped. “I am not—”
“You are,” he repeated, exasperated beyond mortal comprehension. “And it’s fine—like, it’s actually kinda cute when you’re not actively trying to ruin my life—but right now? Right now I need you to stop pretending you’re five years old and actually hear me.”
You scoffed so loud the walls probably shook. “Five years old? Riki, I swear to God—”
“No, seriously.” He crouched down a bit so he was more level with you, eyes narrowing just enough to make your pulse jump. “Grow. Up.”
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened.
You were halfway to telling him off when he added, annoyingly soft:
“I’m trying to talk to you. Not fight. Not yell. Talk. But you’re making it impossible.”
You blinked at him, chest tight, fury and embarrassment and something dangerously close to vulnerability twisting together.
His voice dropped low. “Stop looking away from me. I hate when you do that.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He leaned in, jaw tight. “And it makes me feel like you don’t care.”
That sentence froze you mid-breath. “…What?” you whispered.
Your heartbeat kicked up so loudly you were sure he could hear it. You sat there, arms crossed, shoulders tense, but eyes finally—finally—on him.
Riki looked back at you with an honesty that stripped every smart remark right off your tongue.
“Stop acting like I’m some villain,” he murmured. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.” He reached up, brushing a curl that fell out of your ponytail—behind your ear. “And with that funky ass temper, I can’t get a word in.”
You stare at him for a moment, tilting your chin to the side his hand was on as your eyes flit to the side. Like you were almost embarrassed to enjoy physical touch from him. “Riki.”
“Yes?”
“How long have you known me for? Do you remember?”
His hand froze halfway down your cheek like you’d just hit him with a pop quiz he absolutely did not study for.
“…Huh?” he blinked.
You sighed, leveling him with a stare that could’ve melted steel. “How long have you known me? Since when?”
Riki straightened, shoulders pulling back as if bracing for impact. “Since we were seven.”
“And in all those years,” you continued, voice low, “has there ever been a moment where my mouth hasn’t gotten me or one of us into some type of trouble?”
He pursed his lips in thought, his eyes seeming to search through the crevices of his brain. “Um…no not really.” Riki looked back from ages seven to twenty—trying to assess when your sharp tongue and impulsive actions hadn’t done them well.
“See?” You smiled in jest. “And you guys just accept me for me. This is who I am. And the fact that you hate it now all of a sudden—”
Riki rolls his eyes, frustration flaring in his chest. “No one’s saying we don’t accept you,” he retorts, his tone firm. “But just because we’ve put up with your bullshit for years doesn’t mean you can’t be held accountable for your words and actions. This isn’t some free pass to act like a brat whenever you want.”
“Yes it is!” You laugh, “because I accept you for all your shit. You’re like a diet version of me.”
Riki’s whole face twisted, “please. You’re the most mini-me of anyone I know.”
“Are you trying to son me?”
Riki laughed, leaning into you as he laid his head on your shoulder. “You are my son, you wanna be like me soooo bad.”
You shoved his forehead lightly. “Shut up.”
He blinked at you, affronted. “Don’t hit your daddy.”
You smacked him again.
“HEY—”
“Keep talking like that,” you warned, “and I’m putting you in the home early.”
He leaned back, pointing at you like you were the crazy one. “You can’t put me in the home. You’re my dependent.”
“Riki, I am older than you.”
“That’s what makes this so embarrassing for you,” he said, absolutely delighted with himself. “Imagine being older and still being my mini-me.”
Your eye twitched so violently he had to bite back a laugh.
Then he softened, just a little—head tilting, voice dropping. “Come on, Boo. I’m messing with you.” His shoulder nudged yours. “You know I don’t think of you like that.” Leaning his head back on your shoulder as he reached down for your hand. “I’m sorry, again.”
You tried—tried—to keep your spine stiff, arms crossed, jaw tight. But the second his fingers brushed yours, your whole posture betrayed you. Your hand didn’t curl around his, but it didn’t pull away either. It just…sat there. Suspiciously compliant.
You exhaled, staring at the wall like it might give you divine guidance.
“I know.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I messed up. I scared you. I made you feel played. I talked too much, I didn’t talk enough—I know.” He lifted his head just enough to look at you. “But I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear to God, Boo, every dumb thing I did was me trying to keep you safe.”
Your throat tightened despite every effort to swallow the feeling down.
“And I know you don’t like being protected,” he added, voice threading into something shy. “But you matter to me. In a way that makes it hard to think straight sometimes.”
Ever since you could remember meeting him, Riki had been your protector. And the worst part? He’d never even asked for the job.
He just…took it.
The kid who yanked you out of trouble before you even recognized it. The teenager who stood in front of you during every argument you started. The grown man now sitting in your bedroom at two in the damn morning, wearing your/his pants and looking at you like you were the whole reason he learned how to fight in the first place.
His knuckles grazed your jaw as he leaned in, nudging your cheek with his nose the way he always did when he was trying to make you smile. It worked—of course it did—your laugh spilling out small and helpless. “Your hero, your knight…” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. The smile that followed wasn’t cocky or teasing, but something almost…bashful. Like he couldn’t believe he’d earned the right to say it out loud. “Remember?”
But the word hero didn’t even begin to cover it.
He’d been a shadow and a shield, a tether and a torch—always one step ahead of whatever chaos you were about to fling yourself into. He carried your messes like they weighed nothing, shouldered your storms like they were summer rain. Half the time you wondered if he’d been assigned to you at birth, like some overworked guardian angel who accidentally got attached.
And you did remember. Every version of him. Every moment he’d stepped between you and the world like it was instinct. Like saving you was simply something he knew how to do—before he even knew how to save himself.
“Mhm,” you nodded—barely, quietly, like admitting it too loudly might crack something wide open between you.
His eyes softened even more at that tiny sound, as if your agreement carried an entire lifetime of shared secrets. His fingers slipped from your jaw to the side of your neck, feather-light, tracing the spot he always touched when he was trying to ground you…or ground himself. You could feel the tremor hiding in his thumb. He was steady for everyone else—impenetrable, unshakable—but with you? His armor always rattled just a little.
“Good,” he whispered, almost like he needed reassurance. Like he was afraid you might’ve forgotten who he’d always tried to be for you.
You hadn’t. God, you hadn’t.
If anything, the memories rose up all at once—him grabbing your sleeve before you stepped into the street at eight years old, him taking the blame for something you’d said at twelve, him pulling you behind him during the campfire argument at fifteen, eyes dark and jaw set like he’d burn the whole forest down before he let someone talk to you sideways. Him now, sitting inches from you, still trying to guard you from something invisible in the room.
He leaned in a little closer, forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice lowering like the hour demanded honesty. “I always wanted to be that for you,” he said. “Even when you didn’t need me to be.”
Your chest tightened—not painfully, but in that terrifyingly sweet way that told you he meant every word. “It’s not like I need you anyway…” You smile shyly as you nudge him with your elbow.
“No?” He laughed, “you don’t need me, Boo?” He beamed, wrapping his arms around your waist—pulling your side into him.
You shook your head, “nope—oof! Dude—”
Burying his face into your neck as he blew raspberries into it, he pulled you back flat onto the bed as you both laughed. You hit the mattress with a soft thud, breath catching in your throat before dissolving into helpless laughter. “Riki—stop—!” you wheezed, kicking a leg uselessly as he doubled down, arms locked around you like he’d been waiting all night for an excuse to tackle you.
He blew another loud, obnoxious raspberry against your neck, the kind that made your whole body jolt. “Don’t need me, huh?” he taunted, his words muffled against your skin as he climbed on top of you. “Say it again. Go ahead. I dare you.”
You tried to twist away, but his grip only tightened, warm and solid and stupidly comforting. “I don’t—!” you squeaked, halfway grinning, halfway choking on your own breath. “I don’t need—Riki, seriously—!”
“Liar,” he declared, without even giving you a chance to finish, pressing his forehead into the curve of your shoulder like you were some sort of pillow he owned. “Biggest liar I’ve ever met.”
You fought him for another second—maybe two—before your muscles gave out in that familiar way they always did around him. The laughter faded into a soft, breathless quiet, the room still humming with the echo of it. His weight settled over you, heavy and warm, like he’d decided this was his new home address.
He exhaled against your neck, softer this time—pressing a gentle kiss there before he raised his head. Nose to nose with you as you both smiled when your eyes met, his voice dropping back to something unbearably gentle. “How was school? You haven’t found my replacement yet, huh?”
“Nuh-uh…no one could ever replace you.”
His lips quirked—not into that smug little smirk he wore when he was winning, but something smaller, almost startled. Like he hadn’t expected you to hand him an answer that soft, that honest, without putting up some kind of fight first.
His fingers brushed your waist, thumb tracing slow, unconscious circles like he was memorizing the shape of you. “Yeah?” he murmured, the word barely more than a breath. “You saying I’m…irreplaceable?”
You rolled your eyes, but it came out ruined—too fond, too warm. “That’s literally what ‘no one could ever replace you’ means.”
His thumb paused mid-circle on your waist, the warmth of his touch lingering like a question he was scared to ask out loud.
“Yeah, but…” he said slowly, eyes flicking over your face as if trying to read something between your lashes. “You say stuff like that and then pretend we’re just—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Nothing.”
Your breath caught. Not because he was wrong, but because he was painfully, dangerously right. “We are nothing,” you said a little too quickly, a little too defensively. “Like—we have to be. You know how it’d look if anyone found out.”
Riki stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was green. “How it’d look to who? Our friends?”
“Yes!” You sat up slightly, annoyed that he wasn’t getting it. “If they think I’m sneaking around with you, it’s gonna make everything weird. I don’t want Leehan or Shota or anybody else thinking there’s…a thing. I don’t want a rift.”
“A rift,” he repeated, deadpan. “You think you and me laughing at two in the morning in your bed is gonna break up the Fantastic Four?”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.” He tugged you a tiny bit closer by your hip, eyes locked on yours. “Boo, we’ve gotten through worse. They’re not gonna fall apart because we—” He hesitated, jaw working. “—because we care about each other differently now.”
You swallowed hard, your voice smaller now. “I just don’t want them picking sides.”
His expression softened like melting wax. He leaned his forehead to yours again, gentler this time. “No one’s picking sides. Not unless you start picking fights again, and even then I’m still betting on you.”
You snorted, the tension easing just an inch.
He took the opportunity, slipping a hand up your back, grounding you with his warmth. “Look,” he murmured, “I get not wanting to make waves. I do. But don’t pretend this is nothing just to keep the peace.”
Your heartbeat thudded once, sharp and loud.
“Because it’s not nothing,” he whispered. “Not to me.”
“I know, Riki…Just—please?” You bring your hand up to his cheek, brushing his chiseled jaw. Though he shook his head slowly with soft eyes, you whispered—lips brushing against his as you mumbled. “Please, for me? Please…?”
His breath hitched the second your lips grazed his—soft enough to deny, close enough to ruin him. His eyes fluttered half-shut, like he couldn’t decide whether to lean in or back away before he did something stupid. “Baby…” His voice was barely sound now, more exhale than words. You felt it against your mouth, warm and shaky. “You know I’d do anything you asked.”
You nudged closer—not kissing him, not quite, just letting the shape of him press into the shape of you. Your palm was warm on his jaw, your thumb sweeping the curve of his cheekbone. His breath stuttered again. “But you’re asking me to pretend,” he murmured, eyes opening fully. “To pretend I don’t…feel this. With you. About you.”
Your fingers flexed at his skin, and he shivered.
“I’m not asking you to pretend,” you whispered back. “I’m just asking you to help me protect what we already have. Before anyone else gets involved. Before it turns into drama or sides or expectations. I just…want us. Quietly. Carefully.”
His jaw clenched under your hand—less anger, more restraint. The kind he only ever showed with you.
“And if I say yes,” he asked, voice low, “does that mean I only get you in moments like this? When the door’s closed and everyone’s asleep?”
Your throat bobbed.
“If that’s what it takes to make sure that we don’t ruin our group.” you whispered.
For a beat, he didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you, his forehead pressing to yours like he was steadying himself on the only thing that hadn’t ever failed him.
Then he exhaled, long and quiet, his hand sliding from your back to cradle the side of your neck. “Fine,” he murmured. “For you.” His nose brushed yours, gentle, aching. “But don’t ask me to act like you don’t mean something to me. Even if no one else gets to know yet.”
His thumb traced your throat, slow, deliberate. “I can’t fake that. Not even for you.”
—
The next morning
—
“Cousin?!” Leehan called out to his mom as she moved through the kitchen. “What cousin?!”
Mrs. Kim sighed as she chopped up vegetables, using the knife as a pointer to gesture to the basket of laundry on the counter that she needed her son to fold. “My friend from high school, Alexa, is sending her daughter to go to school here.”
With a roll of the eye, “school or university? Neither start for another month and a half.” He goes to fold some of the shirts in the basket. Tucking in the small ones of his younger brother and sister.
“She got into USC. I thought she could stay here, hang out with you and your friends. Just to get acclimated.” She says, looking down as she chops up a carrot. “Her mom’s staying back in Honduras where they live now and she just wanted to get out. See the world other than where she’s from. You get it.”
Leehan sighed, “we don’t need another buddy; and why do we need another person in here? It’s already crowded as is.” His little siblings breeze past him, pushing him into the counter as they giggle—running amok in the kitchen and living room.
Mrs. Kim slammed the knife down with a sneer. “No playing in the living room! Go in the yard!”
The two little ones scattered instantly, shrieking as they bolted for the back door. Leehan winced, rubbing the spot on his hip where a rogue elbow had caught him. “See?” he muttered. “Chaos. Pure chaos. And you wanna add another college student into this circus?”
His mom didn’t even look up as she slid the carrots into a bowl. “She’s not just any college student. She’s Alexa’s daughter. And she’s never lived away from home before. She’ll need support.”
“Support,” he echoed flatly. “Right. And by support you mean me.”
Mrs. Kim shot him a look that could level a grown man. “I mean all of us. But especially you. You’re the oldest. Responsible. Reliable.”
He blinked. “Mom, you asked me to unclog the shower last week and I nearly passed out from the smell.”
“Exactly,” she said, patting his cheek. “Builds character.”
He groaned into the laundry basket. “And what’s her name?” he asked, voice muffled in defeat.
“Xiomara.”
Leehan lifted his head like she’d just announced they were adopting a Bengal tiger. “Xiomara?” he repeated, slowly, like the name itself was a threat. “Mom, that sounds like a girl who walks into a room and immediately ruins my life.”
Mrs. Kim swatted his arm with a dish towel. “She’s very sweet!”
“That’s what people said about Riki before he started bossing me around,” he muttered.
From outside, one of his little siblings shrieked triumphantly, followed by a loud thump. Mrs. Kim didn’t even flinch. “You’ll take her around, introduce her to your friends, show her the area—”
“Mom.”
“—help her move in, make sure she’s eating—”
“Mom.”
“—maybe drive her to orientation—”
“Mom!”
Finally, she looked up.
“What?”
“I’m not a babysitter,” he huffed. “I barely babysit them.” He pointed out the window where one of the kids was trying to climb the garden hose like it was a rope in gym class.
Mrs. Kim clicked her tongue as she went to chop some garlic. “She’s not a baby. She’s eighteen.”
Leehan’s soul left his body. “EIGHT—Mom, that’s literally barely legal! I can’t be seen hanging out with a kid! I’m twenty! People will think I’m recruiting!”
Mrs. Kim pursed her lips, squinting her eyes as she clutched the knife tighter in her hands. No words were spoken as she tapped the surface slowly.
Leehan froze.
Not because she looked angry—but because that tap? That knife-tap? That was the “choose your next words like your life depends on it” tap.
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay. Alright. That came out wrong.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He gulped.
“What I meant,” he corrected quickly, “was that—uh—eighteen is…young. Very young. Like ‘still doesn’t know which side of the street has the bus stop’ young.”
His mother didn’t blink. “Continue.”
“And!” he added, voice cracking like a man under interrogation, “—and I am not qualified for mentorship. I’m barely feeding myself on time. I had cereal for dinner yesterday.”
“That’s because you refused to eat the stew I made.”
“It had mushrooms!”
Tap. Tap.
He winced.
Mrs. Kim sighed through her nose, the way women do when they’ve raised three children, a husband, and apparently now one extra stray. “She is not a kid. She is a guest. A guest who will be living under my roof. Which means she will be treated like family.”
Leehan nodded rapidly. “Right. Family. Like a sibling.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Perfect,” he said.
A beat.
“Except,” she raised a brow, “you will not treat her like you treat your siblings.”
He blinked. “Why not?”
“Because you terrorize them.”
“I don’t.” He shakes his head.
“I’m not arguing with you, son.”
“Fine.” He nods in relent. “So…where’s she gonna sleep?”
“Your room.”
The words landed like a brick to the skull.
Leehan straightened slowly, arms going stiff at his sides. “My…room,” he repeated, making sure he hadn’t misheard. “As in—my room, where I sleep. Where my stuff lives. Where I—exist.”
“Yes,” his mother said simply, drying her hands on a towel. “She needs a space that’s clean and quiet. And yours is the only one that makes sense.”
He stared at her, chest tight. “Mom, my room is my only space. The only place in this entire house that’s not—” he gestured around at the chaos, the abandoned toys, the scribbles on the fridge, the sticky handprints on the cupboards— “that.”
“I know,” she said, and her voice wasn’t sharp this time. It was steady. Unmoving. “Which is why I’m trusting you with this.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. The weight behind her words was unmistakable.
“She’s coming here alone,” Mrs. Kim continued softly. “No family. No support system. No familiarity. She’s walking into a country she doesn’t know, a language she barely uses, a school she’s hardly seen. She’s still a child to her mother, no matter how old she is.”
Leehan’s breath stalled.
“She needs safety,” she said. “And stability. She needs someone who won’t overwhelm her or talk down to her. At least give her sympathy.”
He pressed his lips together, throat tightening.
“And you,” she added, looking him in the eyes now, “are the one I trust the most to give her that. Not because you’re perfect. But because you’re my son and I raised you to take care of people always.”
Silence.
A thick, heavy silence.
He let out a slow breath. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll move my things.”
Mrs. Kim nodded, relieved—but not triumphant. “Thank you.”
He stared at the floor, at the laundry basket, at nothing in particular.
“…What’s she like?” he asked after a moment. Not annoyed. Not sarcastic. Just…trying to understand the person stepping into his life.
His mom paused, thinking. “Smart,” she said. “Kind. Quiet. More observant than she lets on. But she's a nice girl, you guys would like her.”
He nodded once.
Then again.
“Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll be good to her.”
“I know you will.”
A beat passed—the kind that settles into the air, makes everything feel more real.
“What time does her flight get in?” he asked.
“One hour.”
His eyes widened. “Mom—”
“Go,” she said, waving him off. “Take the car, I’ll move your stuff.”
He grabbed his keys, heart pounding as he jogged toward the door.
And as he makes his way out to the beat up driveway, he comes across you walking up his porch. He steps back, soft laughter as he puts his hands up in defense. “Woah…gonna bite my head off, Chihuahua?”
“Shut up,” you cross your arms—rolling your eyes as you resist a laugh. “I left my bag here yesterday. I’ve come to retrieve it.”
He nods affirmatively, brushing past you as he gently yanks a curl of yours on his way down the steps. “It’s in my closet.”
You reached down to swat his arm. “Where you going?”
He turns back, one foot already on the next step, breath still a little fast from the sprint out of the house. The sunlight catches on his face, softening everything he’s trying so hard to keep steady.
“Airport,” he says simply.
Your brows pull together. “Now?”
He huffs—short, almost incredulous—as if he just realized the timing doesn’t make any damn sense either. “Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Apparently I’m a morning person now.”
You blink at him. “Since when?”
“Since today,” he says, dead serious.
There’s no joke behind it. No smirk. He’s standing there looking wired, focused, too awake for someone who hasn’t even had breakfast yet.
You tilt your head, studying him. Something in his voice is different—quieter, heavier. “Family?”
He hesitates. Just long enough for the truth to flash across his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Kind of.”
“Can I ride with you?” You shrug, “I’m bored and I have literally nothing else to do.”
He jerks his chin toward the driveway, already moving, steps quick and purposeful. You follow him down the porch, your shoulder brushing his for half a second—a tiny contact, but he feels it. You can tell by the way his breath stutters before he masks it. Annoyance but patient in some way.
The car beeps unlocked.
He opens the passenger door for you without a word. You lean against the door before you sit, preparing to ask him something. But as you do, a voice calls out:
“Oi! Where are you two off to?”
You both turn to see Shota coming from across the street—backpack in tow as he bounces over. His dyed, blond hair shining in the beaming sun. “You two know I have attachment issues.”
You laugh softly as you brush your hair off your shoulder. “Ask your best friend, his mood is shot.”
Leehan sighed, “my mood isn’t anything, Bun—I just have to go and you’re making me late.”
“Late for what?!” Another voice calls across the street.
It was weird, yet convenient how your guys’ houses were lined up. The best way to describe it would be akin to a square and its vertices. Right beside Leehan was your house. Directly parallel to you was Riki, then parallel to Leehan was Shota.
Riki jogs down his driveway, one hand raking through his hair, the other shoving his keys into his pocket like he’s already annoyed at the world and hasn’t even reached the sidewalk yet.
He eyes the three of you gathered around Leehan’s half-opened car door. “What’s happening?” he asks, breath a little uneven like he’d been rushing.
Shota throws his hands up dramatically. “A betrayal is happening. They were about to leave me. Again.”
Leehan’s jaw flexes. “No one’s betraying anyone. I just have somewhere to be.”
Riki’s gaze flicks to you, quick and sharp, then to Leehan—reading the tension instantly. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Leehan mutters.
You answer for him. “He’s lying. Obviously. He opened the car door for me without calling me a dickhead. I’m concerned.”
Shota gasps like you’ve announced a national emergency. “Oh that’s new.”
Leehan drags a hand down his face. “Can you three—just this once—not be—”
“Entertaining?” Shota offers.
“Observant?” Riki adds.
“Inconveniencing?” you finish.
He looks heavenward, praying for strength. Then he jerks his thumb at the car. “Just get in. All of you.”
“Yay!” You and Shota cheered simultaneously. Riki smiled softly as he opened the back passenger door for the older guy to get in.
Shota slid in the backseat, putting his backpack down by his feet—settling into the seat as he fanned himself. “Can you turn the AC on? It’s like a toaster oven in here.”
Leehan makes his way around the van. “The car’s not even on yet, genius.”
Riki snorts, “move over,” he tapped the top of the van as he waited for Shota to shimmy to the other side. But before he could even put his leg in, a deep, raspy voice—diagonal from the driveway called out for him. “Riki!”
All four of your guys’ attention went in the direction of the sound. The birds chirped over the white noise of the block as somehow the sky clouded over. Reo.
You sighed, rolling your eyes as you turned your back again. Leaning against the car with your arms crossed.
Reo was already discussed previously. Not in any depth anyway because as much as he seemed to matter to Riki—he mattered to you as well.
As an enemy.
As an older brother, though, he was Riki’s sole caregiver and provider amidst their parents not being around. While Reo had to juggle being fifteen and taking care of his ten year old brother, he ensured that Riki was in school, was fed, and had what he needed to essentially have a normal childhood just as anyone else.
However, as Riki grew and started to demand (not literally, but metaphorically) the presence of their mom and dad—Reo didn’t know how to handle it. Couldn’t fathom or configure the idea of wearing so many different hats at once. Mom, dad, brother, nurse, personal wallet, cheerleader, chauffeur until Riki was sixteen, the list goes on.
Leehan, Shota, and you had always had the luxury of support by parental figures—something Riki didn’t have—but it was always afforded to him. Never did any of your parents turn him or Reo away for anything because they knew how hard their circumstances were. But no one dared to call social services because it meant that both boys would be lost in the abyss of the American foster care system and of course, everyone has heard such great things about what happens there.
If either of them needed food because Reo’s check didn’t clear—they got it. Christmas gifts. Clothes. Hot water. Anything in the world, those boys had it as long as you, Shota, and Leehan did.
But once Reo graduated high school (with a C average, just by the skin of his teeth)—he knew to follow in the legacy that his father had left him with—R12. Leaving him to stay in Freeridge and get Riki through middle school, high school, and everything else.
And things seemed fine. Reo was going to work. Participating in the gang dealings that both boys seemed to be familiar with but the older they got, the more the cracks started to show.
Riki learned how to be multiple people at once—a friend, support system, an advocate for all three of you…and Reo’s little brother, the kid everyone in R12 kept an eye on because Reo would set the whole block on fire if anything happened to him.
But it was a lot more complex than that. Reo ensured Riki wasn’t touched, ensuring he didn’t lose his respect. But something shifted once Riki turned fifteen.
He stopped caring about the sanctity of Riki’s youth. Disregarded everything that mattered when it came to his brother.
Riki had dreams. Ones that seemed small to others but too big for Freeridge.
And it was simple: make it out.
Since he was a kid, Riki had wished upon a star, tossed a coin into a fountain, closed his eyes extra hard during every birthday wish, wrote a million times under his pillow—for his entire life—the same wish.
To leave.
Not to abandon, not to forget—just to escape the gravity of a place that had never loved him gently. Riki wanted sunlight without bars across it, air without someone else’s name on it, choices that weren’t choreographed by a gang legacy he never asked to inherit.
Reo saw that dream as an insult.
Because to him, leaving meant rejecting the only thing he had ever been good at. The only thing that kept a roof over their heads. The only thing that made him valuable in a world that chewed him up at fifteen and spit him out as a man.
So when Riki talked about getting out—going to college, traveling, anything that didn’t involve the R12 sign—Reo didn’t hear hope. Just betrayal.
And that’s when the shift happened. No more rides to practice. No more checking if Riki ate. No more showing up to school events pretending he wasn’t bone-tired.
Instead—cold orders. Sharp warnings. A hardness that didn’t belong in a home but lived there anyway.
Reo stopped seeing Riki as a kid. Stopped seeing him as a brother. Started seeing him as a liability—someone who wanted to run from the very life Reo had bled to keep intact for him.
Riki never said it out loud, not to you, not to anyone. But every time Reo’s voice cut through the street, every time those R12 men watched him too closely, every time his shoulders went rigid—
You could tell. Because you knew these three like yourself. If you were an impulsive, neurotic, hotheaded chihuahua then Leehan was a pressured, ticking time bomb with oldest sibling syndrome. Shota was a mildly deluded individual that blocked out the negativity in the world by living by his rules. Like Riki was a hurricane contained in a bottle—soft and mesmerizing one moment, destructive and untamable the next. He absorbed everything around him—the chaos, the expectations, the danger—and carried it with a grace that no one else could sustain. But inside, that wish to escape, to be free of Freeridge and the shadows of R12, was a constant pressure, a weight that bent him without breaking him.
And you could see it in the way he flinched when Reo’s name was mentioned, in the subtle tension in his shoulders when someone lingered too long on the block, in the way he smiled a little too hard, laughed a little too loud, just to convince himself he was still okay.
He was caught between worlds: the world he wanted, and the world that had claimed him before he even knew how to fight for himself. And you—well, you understood that storm better than anyone.
The older brother in question jogged across the street. His gaze never left his little brother the whole time. When he finally made it to the driveway, Reo—now twenty-five—stood before you and everyone.
Him and Riki were exactly the same height. A nice six foot one. Reo’s presence hit like a wall, all angles and edges and deliberate weight. His hair, dark and cropped close on the sides, caught the sun in streaks of bronze where it had faded at the tips. His jaw was sharp, square, defined, with the faintest shadow of stubble that made him look older than his twenty-five years. Eyes like storm clouds—a very dark brown—hovered between calculating and exhausted, the kind of eyes that had seen too much too young.
Broad shoulders, strong arms, and a chest that filled out his fitted shirt made him look like he could carry the weight of the street on his back. Even his stance—feet planted just so, fists loose but ready—spoke of someone who had fought to keep everything together, someone who moved with both authority and quiet warning. Every detail about him—the set of his brow, the crease at the corner of his mouth, the way his gaze flicked to Riki first—was a reminder that he wasn’t just an older brother. He was a force.
But he wasn’t impolite.
He scanned the rest of you three with a masked smile. Bending down slightly, poking his head into the van—he caught Shota’s view. “Hi, Shota.”
The guy nodded silently, waving his hand as he put one of his wired earbuds in.
“Donghyun,” he nodded as he looked at Leehan—who leaned against the car with his hands and opened his palm. Hardly smiling but just enough to acknowledge the elder.
Then finally, his eyes fell to you. More like your side profile as you refused to even look at him. The last time you laid eyes on him was the day you left for college—so nearly a year ago. You hadn’t visited during breaks, money was too tight for you to come back and forth.
Watching him stand on the sidewalk beside his younger brother as the three of you all drove onto the next part of your lives was probably the most sadistic thing you’ve seen out of him. The memory was like a picture in your mind. Him, resting a hand on Riki’s shoulder as their eyes hadn’t left you. Like he was reminding him of what he never wanted to come to fruition for Riki.
“Bunnyboo…” he called out with a smile. “You look beautiful. I’ve missed you.”
You stiffened at the voice, the familiar tone threading through the warm morning air, carrying all the weight of his presence. That smile—something in it was the same as before, teasing yet measured, like he had rehearsed it a thousand times to keep control—but there was an undercurrent there, an edge of something almost vulnerable, something carefully tucked beneath the force of his usual armor.
“Hm.” You inhaled, arms tightening as you crossed them.
He probed on though, “you’ve grown. You still carry your Bratz dolls in your backpack?”
You scoff, smacking your teeth. “That was like fifteen years ago.”
Reo chuckled, a low, controlled sound that somehow carried both amusement and a trace of disbelief. “That long, huh? I feel like that’s the kind of thing that sticks with you forever,” he said, eyes flicking briefly to the gold, nameplate necklace with your actual name on it. The one you wore every single day since you were a kid. There was a softness in that look, fleeting, but it was there—an acknowledgment of the person you were then, the person you’d become.
You rolled your eyes, brushing a curl behind your ear. “Yeah, well, some of us grow up,” you said, trying for a casual tone, though your voice carried just enough bite to hint that you weren’t entirely relaxed.
He took your jab and let it roll down his back. His tongue poked his cheek as he turned to Riki. “We got business.”
Riki’s shoulders tensed, the familiar flicker of unease crossing his features. “Business? Now? At nine in the morning?” His voice carried a note of incredulity that didn’t quite mask the edge of confusion.
Reo didn’t look at him, didn’t even blink. His gaze was fixed, sharp, deliberate, scanning the block like he already knew every corner, every potential obstacle. “Now,” he said again, voice low but iron-strong. “We move fast, or it’s done before it even starts.”
You leaned back slightly against the car, arms still crossed, observing the quiet, absolute command in his posture. Every movement was deliberate, economical—Reo didn’t waste energy on theatrics. Even the way he stood beside Riki, that protective shadow, made your stomach knot. The tension wasn’t just between the brothers—it radiated outward, threading through the air around everyone else, a subtle, undeniable warning.
Riki exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Okay…” He turned to the three of you with a look of frustration. “I’ll see y’all when you get back.”
You watched him hesitate for a moment, shoulders stiff, jaw tight, before he finally gave a small nod. “Be careful,” you muttered under your breath but loud enough for him to catch.
Reo’s eyes flicked toward you, the storm behind them softening just a fraction, like he recognized the weight of your gaze. No words, just a subtle tilt of his head—a silent acknowledgment. Then he turned, and with practiced precision, started walking down the street, Riki falling into step beside him like a shadow, smaller but unwilling to be left behind.
The van sat there idling, warm in the morning sun. You pressed your palms into each, trying to calm the sudden tightness in your chest. The air seemed heavier, charged, as if the space around them carried all the years of responsibility, anger, and unspoken plights between the brothers.
Shota leaned back against the seat, muttering, “Damn. That’s…intense.”
Leehan just shook his head, lips pressed together. “Yeah. That’s Reo for you. Always been that way.”
You stayed quiet, watching the figures recede, knowing that once they disappeared around the corner, the street would feel smaller—and emptier—but the echo of their presence would linger, a quiet warning you couldn’t ignore.
—
The drive south to LAX was relaxing, you on the aux as some music played comfortably. As Leehan pushed the van down the freeway, you hummed along to the music as you watched the world pass you by.
But of course, silence was always short-lived as it pertained to your friends. “So, I assume you and Riki are together again?”
You turned to him with a flabbergasted, yet offended expression. “I’m sorry?”
His eyes widened, tightening on the steering wheel. “I said, ‘I assume you and Riki are hanging out together again?”
“Oh…”
“...as in, you guys aren’t fighting anymore?” He leaned back as he signaled to move to another lane.
“Oh…yeah.” You nodded as your heart rate simmered a little. “Yeah, we squashed it.”
“So what happened?” He said absentmindedly as he turned the music down a little so he could hear you properly.
You gulp, keeping your eyes looking out of the window. “Nothing. We just agreed to…chill, you know. No beef.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Leehan laughed, “you were at his throat less than a day ago and now things are just squashed? What actually happened between you guys? Is what he said true or not?”
This was the thing you hated about lying: the guilt of it. But the fact that you had to think of a lie, say it convincingly, then remember it was entirely too stressful.
Riki didn’t even want to keep this up. He wanted to show you off, hold your hand walking down the street, kiss you whenever he felt like. Not in the dark or behind closed doors within the confines of your rooms or the city’s outskirts. But of course, he was a simple man—and entirely too easy. Whatever it took to be with you, he’d do it.
But your fear of commitment and judgment superseded anything that either of you could want.
“No, we didn’t sleep together.” You said with finality. “He just said that because some of the idiotic R12 members were talking about getting at me. So he—” You used air quotes, “‘put a claim on me’ so that they wouldn’t try anything.”
“So why didn’t he tell us that he did that?”
You somehow reached a flow state. “Because he knows how you two run your fat mouths. It’s just better if everyone thinks the same thing, I guess. That way he doesn’t have to remember who knows what.”
Leehan’s brow arched so high it was nearly touching his hairline. “Mhm. Right. Because he’s soooo organized like that.”
You shot him a glare sharp enough to slice bread. “Can you just drive?”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes still on you. “Nah, because something’s not adding up. Riki said one thing. Shota and I heard another. You acted one way. And now this?” He motioned in a circle at your whole existence. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar,” you snapped.
“So you admit that you’re lying?”
You groaned, sliding lower into your seat until you were practically melting into the upholstery. The anxiety sat in your chest like a cinder block. Keeping a secret relationship hidden from a man like Leehan—who was basically a human lie detector fused with a nosy aunt—felt like trying to hide a fireworks show behind a napkin.
And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong. Your lies were getting thinner, shakier, stitched together by panic. You felt the guilt creeping up your throat—warm, prickly, accusing.
Leehan glanced at you. His voice softened just enough to unsettle you. “Are you scared of him?”
You blinked. “What? Who?”
“Reo.”
You laughed, actually laughed at how off he was. “Please, that dickhead has nothing to do with this.” You folded your hands over your stomach as you crossed your legs in an effort to warm them from the blasting air conditioner. “He doesn’t scare shit over here.”
“So what are you hiding and why lie about it?”
“Oh my god,” you groaned. “Bitch you are so fucking nosey!”
Leehan grinned like a cat who’d finally cornered a mouse. “Yeah. And?”
“And mind your damn business!”
“It is my business,” he argued, turning onto the main road like he wasn’t detonating your blood pressure. “Because every time you lie, Riki acts weird, and when Riki acts weird, I get dragged into some emotional bullshit I didn’t ask for.”
You clutched your chest dramatically. “So now I’m inconveniencing you?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even hesitate. “My chakras are weighed down.”
You stared at him. “You don’t even know what chakras are.”
“I know yours are clogged with secrets.”
You slapped his arm—not hard, but enough to make him jerk the wheel a little. “Leehan!”
“Hey! Assaulting the driver is crazy.”
“Being the IRS of my personal life is crazy.”
He snorted, glancing over at you for half a second. “So you admit there’s something to tax?”
Your jaw dropped. “I didn’t say that!”
“You said it with your face.”
“Shut up.”
He hummed, smug, fingers tapping the wheel like he’d solved a crime. “One day, you’re gonna tell me.”
“One day,” you shot back, “I’m gonna push you out of a moving vehicle.”
“Good,” he said, nodding. “Maybe the fall will knock the truth loose.”
“I wish death on you. A slow, agonizing death. But until then,” you sighed. “Which terminal are we headed to?” You gestured ahead to the iconic big white letters that indicated your arrival.
“Terminal B…” Leehan sighed as he leaned forward, inspecting the bustling airport and the pedestrians making their ways through.
You reached behind you to grab Shota’s backpack, shuffling through it for his bag of sour gummy worms. The owner of said bag extended his hand for you to give him some, not even speaking because he had his own music playing.
You dropped a few gummy worms into Shota’s waiting palm, then tore one in half with your teeth like a feral squirrel. “Thank you for your service,” you mumbled around the candy.
Shota gave you a thumbs-up without looking up, completely zoned out to whatever playlist he lived on. You swore the guy could sleep through a tornado but wake up instantly if someone opened a bag of snacks within a five-mile radius.
Leehan eased the car into the arrival lane, glaring at the chaos like it personally offended him. “Why are airports always like fever dreams?” he muttered. “Every time I come here, I lose five years of my life.”
“Who are we scooping anyway?” You say through a mouthful of candy. “An uncle or some shit?”
“No, my cousin—well…she’s not blood but…” He shrugs as he grabs a gummy from the bag.
You snorted, “I got you, that’s just how people of color work, I guess. Everyone’s a cousin.”
He nodded, “yeah, but this is my first time meeting her. Her mom and my mom went to high school together way back when. Then they moved and shit, now her daughter is going to uni here in the States. Or…will be.”
You furrowed your brows inquisitively, “where are they from?”
“Honduras.”
Your brows lifted in surprise as a smile hit your face. “Oh snap, look at Mrs. Kim knowing people. Mrs. Worldwide.”
Leehan snorted, shaking his head. “Please don’t gas her up like that. She already thinks she’s Pitbull.”
You laughed, leaning back in your seat. “No, because I know she be telling people she’s multicultural just for the fun of it.”
“She does,” he said flatly. “She told her nail tech last week she ‘turns up’ when she listens to reggaetón. Like who says that anymore?”
You slapped his arm. “Shut UP.”
He groaned. “I was like, Mom…you don’t even know who Bad Bunny is.”
Shota, still munching gummies with one earbud in, glanced up. “She thought his name was Benny.”
You wheezed. “Isn’t his name Benito? She was close.”
“Not the point.” Shota smiled, taking another gummy worm. “I just don’t get how…”
Shota’s joke faded into the background, but you barely heard it. Something in your chest shifted—tightened—like a knot being pulled slowly, deliberately, until it demanded to be acknowledged. Everything seemed like white noise.
You watched the crowds outside the car, people dragging luggage, hugging relatives, starting trips, ending them. Moving. Living. And it hit you—hard—that Riki should’ve been here. Should’ve been laughing with you all. Complaining about the LA traffic. Stealing Shota’s gummies and flicking his ear just because he could.
He should’ve been in this moment.
But he wasn’t. Because he was stuck.
Your fingers curled around the bag of candy, knuckles whitening. The thought rose before you could stop it, blooming sharp and aching in your chest. You didn’t say anything at first—just let the idea sit there, heavy, terrifying, obvious.
You didn’t even realize you’d spoken until you heard your own voice.
“…I want him out.”
Leehan looked over. “Who?”
“Wait, I didn’t even do anything…” Shota said with a frown.
You kept your eyes straight ahead. If you looked at either of them, you’d talk yourself out of it. “Riki. I want him out of R12.”
Shota sat up, the surprise on his face softening into something more careful. No jokes this time. No easy shrug.
The words kept coming, quiet but sure, like you’d been holding them back for years.
“I keep thinking,” you said, voice low, “about all the things he’s missing. All the things he’ll keep missing because Reo won’t let him go.” You shook your head slightly. “I can’t stand the idea of him still being there while the rest of us get to…grow. Move forward. Be young. Be stupid. Be normal.”
Leehan’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t interrupt. Neither did Shota.
“He had the best grades out of all of us in school. Joined clubs, made friends, community service, everything. All down the drain because his selfish older brother couldn’t see past Freeridge. But it’s time for me to be selfish, guys, because I want more. For him.”
You swallowed hard. “And I don’t know…maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s impossible, but I just—” you exhaled shakily. “I keep thinking there has to be a way to get him out. Really out. A way to give him a chance at the life he keeps pretending he doesn’t want.”
Shota let out a slow breath through his nose, like he was trying to process ten different emotions at once. “You’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he murmured.
You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.
Because once the thought crawled into your chest, it refused to leave—this stubborn, aching truth that wouldn’t unclench its grip. Riki laughing on a couch that wasn’t surrounded by lookouts. Riki sleeping without one eye open. Riki showing up to dumb little hangouts like this one, rolling his eyes, complaining about the snacks. Riki choosing things instead of surviving them.
You blinked hard. “I hate that I’m starting to picture him as a memory while I’m still alive.”
Shota’s jaw flexed. Leehan’s stare stayed glued to the road, but his knuckles had gone white.
“He’s not gone,” Leehan said quietly.
“No,” you agreed, throat tight, “but you know how that life is. You either end up in prison, dead, or both. And I don’t even want to think about either.”
Shota shifted, like the words physically hit him. “Don’t say that,” he muttered, but it wasn't a reprimand—it was fear.
You stared down at your hands. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Neither of them did.
The signs passed, blocking the sun for a moment—casting a shadow across the windshield, washing the car in gold every few seconds. Each flash made the ache in your chest feel sharper, more real, like the world itself was trying to illuminate a truth you’d been avoiding.
“I keep replaying stupid things,” you said softly. “Like him talking about wanting to visit a college campus. Or saying he wanted to see snow for the first time. Or—” your breath trembled, “—how he used to say he wanted to get out of Freeridge before he turned twenty-one.” You swallowed again, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “He says it like a joke now. Like something he already accepted he’ll never have.”
Shota looked out his window, voice barely above a whisper. “He stopped talking about the future altogether.”
That got you. A quiet, painful exhale left your lungs. “Exactly,” you murmured. “It’s like he’s already grieving a life he hasn’t even lived.”
Leehan finally spoke, low and certain. “Then we don’t let that happen.”
You turned your head, heart thudding. He wasn’t saying it like a fantasy. He was saying it like a plan.
“We figure out a way,” he continued, eyes still on the road but voice steady, “to give him a real shot. A clean break. Something he can’t walk away from, even if he tries.”
✰ synopsis: four childhood best friends thought distance wouldn’t change them. but when you come back home to freeridge after your first year of college, a buried secret and gang politics collide—testing loyalty, love, and the block that raised them.
✰ run time: 17.1k words
✰ mpaa rating: TV-MA — fictional universe (on my block / freeridge, california.), coming of age kinda, found family, morally grey characters, swearing, “secret relationship”, implied sexual content, angst, fluff, banter, drug use and mention, underage drinking, distorted self-image, jealousy, situationship to lovers IM SORRY PLEASE, arguments, gun violence and gang shit, crying, summerween (as per gravity falls love that show), socioeconomic commentary, crude humor (some boundary pushing, but what is art without such), breaking the 4th wall a lil bit (it’s kinda fun i promise)
viewer's discretion advised.
✰ authors note!! (important): hey, welcome to the circle. this, alongside other fics in the future, will be apart of my “as seen on tv” series where i essentially make fics based on my favorite shows! i rmm doing this during my wattpad days but now it has gotten a name and a full blown makeover seeing as i am way more skilled than i was 5 years ago (or at least i’d like to think so).
these fics will literally be a mixture of me writing from memory of the show’s events, creating new scenes and dialogue (obvi, this won’t be a fic ON the show), creating whole new tales but just within the universe itself, etc. some may be oneshots, some may not be! i will make that judgment based on if i feel the fic calls for it or not. but the circle will have more than one. and there will be an upload schedule upon completion (i'm far along already dw), so make sure you turn that tv on.
this is a pilot!! more so, a temperature check to see how we're liking it thus far and if you want more.
you do not need to have watched the shows to understand fics. these can be read separately from the shows. though, it would be more fun!! i’d always recommend on my block as it is one of—if not—the greatest netflix series of all time. it’s all up to you.
soundtrack to enhance reading experience: spotify | apple
You’ve only been back in Freeridge, California for ten minutes and somehow your feet already know where to go.
You grew up on this block—this cracked sidewalk, that bent stop sign, the same sun-faded corner store where y’all used to beg for Slurpees after school. Childhood friends turned family: you, Shota, Leehan, and Riki. Neighbors since tricycles and scraped knees.
You walk up to Leehan’s house—still has the red folding chairs on the porch, the one with the wind chime—and see him and Shota inside through the window, arguing over something stupid like always.
At this point, you knew this house like you knew your own. If you were ever even really there anyway. You’ve spent summers, weekdays, weekends, school years—almost—in this home and it got to a point where you didn’t even have to knock. And if you did, then the door would always open for you because you had a key.
With a lively spirit, you barged inside—duffel bag in tow as you saw two out of your three best friends politicking on the couch. “Hey, assholes!”
Leehan paused in his movements, eyes widening just a bit before his jaw slacked. “You’re back…”
You dropped your duffel by the door with a now deflated look. “Did you expect me to stay in the woods for the whole summer?”
“Yes—I mean, no. No…we didn’t—no we didn’t. Right, Shota?” He turned to the younger, watching as he was on his phone—not even minding the interaction. “Dude!” Leehan snapped as he beamed a pillow at him.
With a thud, Shota’s phone hit the couch. “Yo—oh hey,” he looked at you with a smile. Standing up, opening his arms as he walked closer to you. “I missed you, Bun.”
“Yeah, at least someone did—ooh!” You grunted as Shota strong-armed you, wrapping his arms around you as he lifted you off your feet. “I missed you too, bro.”
He smiled at the words, “you smell like an airplane.”
Laughing, you wrapped your arms around him. Shota wasn’t always the brightest, but he was bright in every other way.
Shota, Leehan, and you all returned from your first years of college and though you didn’t get home right away—you were offered by your school’s writing club to go on a retreat with them after the semester finished. It was fun, enriching, and about five weeks. In a way, it was like summer camp for adults and it was nice to just unplug for a while after a hectic semester.
All three of you attended different schools. And while that was a hard summer’s end—you knew in some way it’d be good for you. The longest all four of you had been apart was a singular day since you were all seven years old. So eleven years later—after endless sleepovers, fights, makeups, robbing convenience stores blind, and late night phone calls—saying goodbye and seeing your cars go in different directions was the hardest thing you ever had to do.
“I missed you guys,” you said softly.
Leehan sighed, giving up his seeming distressed demeanor. “We missed you too,” he joined you and Shota as he wrapped his arms around you both. “How was everything?”
You were too enraptured in the comfort of being in the arms of your friends to realize that there was a third of your heart missing. “It was good…Learn-y, school-y.” Your feet still dangled in the air as you scanned the room; even eyeing the bathroom door for a moment hoping someone would come out. But knowing that it was early noon—Leehan’s little siblings were at day camp and his parents were working. None of them would be back until later in the day.
But even then, something felt hollow. Wrong. And you knew it when you only felt two pairs of arms around you. “Where’s Riki?”
Leehan’s arms stiffened first.
Not dramatically—just this tiny, telltale pause like his brain hit a speed bump. Shota let you down from his hug a little too fast, brushing his hands on his shorts like he suddenly needed something to do.
You frowned. “Hello? I said: where’s Riki?”
Leehan cleared his throat. “Uh…he’s, um…not here.”
“No shit. Where is he?”
Shota wouldn’t look at you. He kept glancing at Leehan like he wanted permission to talk.
“Guys.” You crossed your arms. “I’ve been home for ten minutes and you’re both acting like I asked you who killed Kennedy.”
Shota chimed in, “wasn’t it Harvey Lee Oswald?”
Leehan’s eyes didn’t leave you as he put his finger on Shota’s chest. “Lee Harvey Oswald and Riki’s…just not really around.” He shook his head as he walked to plop down on the couch.
You tilted your head in confusion. Eyes squinting as you had trouble connecting the dots. “What does that even mean? Did he move or some shit?” Crossing your arms as you approached him.
“We just—just drop it, man.” Leehan sighs. “Riki’s irrelevant.”
Your lips parted in surprise as you drew back. “Since—what? He’s been our best friend and neighbor since we were in the second grade and he’s suddenly old news?”
Shota interjected, “can you guys walk with me to the store? I want some chips.”
Without looking at him, you nodded to the door.
Shota tugged his hoodie on and headed out first, leaving you and Leehan in this thick, uncomfortable silence that felt wrong in a house you practically grew up in.
The walk to the corner store was familiar—same cracked pavement, same graffiti that had been there since middle school—but the energy between the three of you was off. Shota kept kicking a pebble like it personally offended him. Leehan jammed his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders tight.
Halfway down the block, you tried again.
“So we’re really not talking about it?”
Leehan exhaled hard through his nose. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
You snorted. “You’re lying. You’re bad at it. And you only get this weird when it has to do with some type of drama.”
Shota slowed his steps just enough for you to catch up. “Look…things got messy while you were gone.”
“What does that mean?”
Another shared look. You hated that look. It meant you’re not gonna like this.
Leehan ran a hand through his hair. “He wasn’t…he wasn’t really hanging with us much. We barely see him anymore.”
“So? We were away. He stayed back because of his stupid ass brother. We know that.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes.
Reo, Riki’s older brother, is heavily involved with a local gang—R12.
R for the family’s first initial. 12 for the street you lived on.
The kind everyone on the block pretends not to see but knows better than to cross. The name carries weight. Trouble, too.
When junior year rolled around, all four of you discussed college and looked forward to moving onto the next chapter of your lives. Shota, Leehan, Riki, and you all thought about attending the same school. Just fun, adulthood, parties, no rules.
But senior year happened and things got serious. Reo was all Riki had. Their mother passed years ago, father was hardly around and Reo had to sacrifice school to follow his birthright: the gang. The same gang everyone warned you about, the same one Riki swore he’d only ever be “adjacent” to.
It wasn’t a choice—more like gravity. Reo demanded more, and Riki got dragged with him. It started small. Doing quick runs, disappearing in the middle of sleepovers, seeing him with small bruises on his ribs.
While the three of you were filing your FAFSAs, Riki hadn’t even made his login yet. Because he foresaw it, he knew that it just wasn’t in the cards for him. Reo made sure of it.
“Man, fuck him. Who even cares…?” Shota rolled up his sleeves as he kept walking.
You shot him a look. “You care. Don’t start lying now. And don’t talk about him like that.”
He didn’t respond—just kept walking, steps quick, like he could outrun the conversation.
Leehan let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s more than just him going through that. There’s…other stuff.”
“No,” you snapped. “Explain it. Because right now you two sound like you’re mad at him for not juggling college applications while dodging gang members.”
Shota kicked at a crack in the sidewalk. “It’s not that.”
“So what is it?!” You snapped, throwing your hands up in anger. “Bro, I’m tired of the fucking riddles like come on! What the fuck happened between when y’all got back and now?” Like usual, your temper was starting to overcome you but you inhaled sharply before the heat ran down your neck and into your gut. “Why are you guys talking like he’s public enemy number one? You have five seconds before I find him myself.”
Leehan looked at Shota wearily, like he was asking for backup but knew he wasn’t getting any. Shota just shrugged, wide-eyed, like you handle it, bro, and suddenly the air felt thick enough to chew.
Leehan dragged a hand down his face. “Because he said some shit, okay?”
“That’s vague as hell.”
He tried again. “He told us something about you.”
You stared at him. “Like what? That I eat my toenails? That I punch idiots that take too long to get to the damn point? What?”
Shota winced like he knew a bomb was about to go off. “He told us that you two…hooked up before we left this year.”
Your mouth parted, breath catching. For a second, you didn’t even react—your brain was too busy finding scenarios in which it’d be solid to break into his house and strangle him while he was sleeping. Nah…the front door was too obvious. All of our houses only have one floor so maybe taking a crowbar to his window wouldn’t be such a bad start. Then the anger hit—fast, hot, bright.
It shot up your spine, tightened your jaw, curled your hands into fists before you even realized.
Leehan took one look at your face and actually stepped back. “Okay—alright—let’s not do the murdery face right now.”
“Murdery?” you scoffed. “Leehan, I’m being polite. You don’t wanna see murdery.”
Shota nodded too fast. “Yeah, she’s being polite, bro. Super polite.”
You didn’t even hear them. Your mind was still stuck on the image of Riki opening his stupid bedroom window at three in the morning to look at the street…only for you to be standing there with a crowbar like, hey bestie, remember me?
“Look,” Leehan put his hands on your shoulders as you heaved—a way of trying to push the anger below your feet. “We didn’t even believe him. We knew it was some bullshit and he didn’t tell anyone else. Just us and…just…” He pursed his lips. “Don’t worry, it’s contained.”
You shook your head as tears stung your eyes. Fists curled as you closed them and tapped your sneakers against the concrete. “I’m not gonna kill him.”
“Mhm, you’re not gonna kill him.” He encouraged.
“So you’re not gonna kill him?” Shota asked, a look of slight disbelief on his face.
“Not gonna.” You inhaled and exhaled smoothly as you opened your eyes. Letting the cool, Californian breeze run through your curly hair. “I’m going to chop his dick off with a cleaver and feed it to him.” You smiled as you backed up, booking it down the street.
Leehan didn’t even get to yell your name before you took off—full speed, booking it down the block with murder in your eyes.
“BRO—GO! GO!” Shota yelped, sprinting after you like his life depended on it.
Leehan was right behind him. “WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS! YOU CAN’T JUST—HEY!”
But you were already gone—cutting corners, hopping curbs, powered by pure betrayal and cardio-fueled vengeance.
By the time they caught up, you were stomping up Riki’s steps, fist balled, and Shota barely managed to grab your arm as you slammed your hand against the metal screen door.
“RIKI!” you barked, pounding again like the door owed you money. “OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”
The house door hummed a little as there seemed to be music playing from the inside. So loud that you don’t even think your banging made a difference.
“Dude, no—” Leehan walked forward, winded as he tried to reason with you. Shota grabbed him before he could advance further. “Just let her…”
Without another word, you forced the door open. The conversations inside cease abruptly. A huge group of guys, probably ranging from late teens to even late twenties, are scattered throughout the house as your view was clouded by thick, strong smelling smog. Through it, the opened door was able to let some of it out for you to see through. The living room was nearly trashed: beer bottles, ashes, wrappers all over the floor as your brows knitted tighter with every step you took inside.
The air was so dense you could taste it—like someone had hotboxed the entire zip code. The music thumped from somewhere deeper in the house, heavy bass rattling the picture frames and your last remaining nerve.
A couple dudes on the couch froze mid-laugh, eyes widening like they’d just seen a ghost with anger-management issues. One guy halfway through rolling a joint dropped the paper entirely. Another blinked at you through the haze, squinting like you were a hallucination he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Leehan and Shota hovered behind you in the doorway, both coughing like old men who’d wandered into the wrong nursing home.
“Goddamn,” Shota muttered. “Even my eyelashes are high.”
“Focus,” Leehan hissed.
You scanned the room—wrappers, beer bottles, someone’s shoe (just one), a chair flipped upside down like it hadn’t survived the last round of whatever chaos went down. And on the wall, barely visible through the smog, a neon light flickered BEER PONG CHAMPIONS, only barely hanging on.
Your voice came out low, deadly, and devastatingly clear:
“Where is Riki?”
The boys closest to you stiffened like you were pointing a gun, not a question. Their eyes darted toward the hallway as one of them lifted a shaky hand and pointed to the kitchen.
You didn’t even thank him.
You just stepped forward, shoulders squared, fury so sharp it cut through the haze better than the open door ever could.
Behind you, Leehan whispered, “Yeah, no, she’s gonna kill him.”
Shota sighed, resigned. “We can at least make sure it’s quick.” It was weird, kind of bizarre seeing you disappear into the smoke.
“Nuh-uh, I’m not going in there with those people.”
As you walked through and turned the corner to the kitchen, you saw him standing in a small crowd with a blunt hanging from his fingers. The moment his eyes found yours, they glazed over. You weren’t sure what exactly you saw in them. They were red, a little hazy and sleepy looking. But seeing you, blew it all.
“What the fuck is wrong with your brain?” You stomp over to him. “Huh?! I leave for writing camp and this is what I’m welcomed by?”
Riki blinks at you, clearly caught off guard by your sudden appearance. He quickly leaned off the surface as he put the blunt out on the counter—not caring if it left a mark. “Woah, hey—”
One of his other associates, a guy with some ridiculous fine line tattoos, cuts in. He eyes you up and down with a condescending smirk. “Who the hell is this chick?”
You turned to him. “This chick is Riki’s supposed childhood best friend. But I guess he wouldn’t know that.” Your attention goes back to Riki. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Disrespecting me like that to our friends?”
The guy stepped to you, his chest puffing up in anger. “Watch your mouth, little girl—”
“Alright,” Riki shook his head as he shifted his body to him. Shaking his head as his high was now fully blown. “You better watch your mouth,” his finger wagged slowly as it lightly rested on the elder’s chest. “Take that bass out of your voice, thank you.”
The tension in the room thickened, the music playing through the house seemed distant now as you watched Riki come to your defense. It wouldn’t be the first—a part of you hoped it wasn’t the last either. But the air seemed heavier than it did thirty seconds ago.
With a final sneer, the guy brushed Riki’s hand off. “Fine. But keep your friend under control, Riki. We don’t need any outsiders causing any problems.”
“I’m an outsider?!” You laugh humorlessly, “please ask—” you approached him angrily but before you could get closer, Riki grabbed you by the arm—his grip surprisingly strong. Pulling you aside in the kitchen “Yo, yo—calm the hell down.”
“Don’t tell me to—”
“Go outside.” He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t have to. It was the tone. Low. Firm. The same one he used back when you’d get worked up over group project partners who didn’t do their share. Except this time, the stakes were way higher than a C-minus.
You yanked your arm, ignoring how warm his hand had been. “I’m not going outside. I’m not done talking to you—”
“I am not having this conversation in front of them,” he hissed, eyes flicking toward the guys watching like it was premium cable. “Outside. Now.”
“Oh, so you can make decisions,” you snapped. “Interesting. Too bad you didn’t use that skill before opening your fat-ass mouth to Shota and Leehan.”
Riki’s jaw flexed. A muscle jumped. “Bro, you’re gonna get yourself jumped, and then I’m gonna have to deal with that and your yelling. Please. Outside.”
You scoffed, loud. “Cute of you to assume I wouldn’t beat their asses and yours.”
That earned you a few offended scoffs from the crowd.
Riki dragged a hand over his face, muttering something in Japanese you were ninety-eight percent sure meant “please, God, not right now.”
With a tight breath, he stepped closer—close enough that his voice dropped and you felt it more than heard it. “You’re in my brother’s house, surrounded by his people. You can’t just bark at everyone and hope it ends well.”
You glared up at him, heat radiating off your skin like you were a human wildfire. “Funny. Because you didn’t seem to care about the consequences when you told the guys we hooked up.”
His eyes widened—there it was. Guilt. Flashing across his face like lightning. “Out. Side.” He grit out. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
You stared him down, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like you were about to lunge first and think later. But the way he said it—low, edged, almost shaking—
Yeah. You knew that tone too.
So you spun on your heel and shoved past him, letting the front door slam behind you as you stepped into the warm air.
Riki followed seconds later, shutting the door softly this time. The music dulled to a muffled thump, the smoke-heavy air swapping out for something crisp, clearer…but still thick between you two.
He stayed a few steps away, hands planted on his hips as he stared at the concrete like it offended him. His voice was low, steadying. “What the fuck is wrong with your crazy ass?!”
“I’m not crazy! I’m angry! How could sit up with our friends and just—”
“What?! Do what?”
You shoved him hard but he barely stumbled. “Fucking dick! Forget that I ever knew you. I never wanna see or hear from you again! Just…” You hold up your hand in repugnance. “Ugh!” Turning to cross the street to go directly to your house, Riki catches your arm before you can make another step. “Stop, bitch—what part of ‘I fucking hate you’ do you not get?”
“Just let me explain! Look, before you at least try to walk out of my damn life—let me tell you—”
You nudged him. “Fuck off,” walking straight ahead and across the street to your house. Disappearing from the scene without another word. Riki groaned in annoyance, massaging his temples as he stood there. Torn between following you or respecting your desire for space.
But after a moment, he lifts the bottom of his black tank top, sighing into it before he’s approached by Shota and Leehan—both boys coming out of the bushes.
Shota emerged first, twigs in his hair, looking like he’d just barely survived a nature documentary. “…She’s alive, right?” he asked, glancing between the street you stormed across and Riki’s murder-face.
Leehan stepped out after him, brushing leaves off his shirt. “We weren’t hiding—we were…tactically monitoring.”
Riki shot them both a look. “You were crouched behind a bush.”
Shota whispered, “Tactical,” under his breath.
Leehan ignored him, eyes locked on Riki. “So? Did you fix it?”
Riki barked a humorless laugh. “Does it look fixed?”
Both boys assessed him. Shota: “…You look like you got hit by a car.” Leehan: “Twice.”
Riki dragged a hand over his face again, jaw tight, chest still rising a little too fast. “She won’t even let me talk. I tried to explain, and she—” he gestured vaguely toward your house—“walked off like I’m nothing to her.”
“That’s because you messed up,” Leehan said bluntly. “Like really messed up. Like…badly.”
Shota hummed. “Honestly, I thought she was gonna deck you. And I was kinda ready to join in.”
Riki kicked a pebble, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Please, I’ve been kicking your ass since the sandbox.”
Shota bristled instantly. “Bro, that was ONE time—”
“It was every time,” Riki shot back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You used to fall over if someone breathed too hard.”
Leehan waved a hand. “Yo, can we circle back to the part where you detonated your entire friendship in under thirty seconds?”
Riki’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The high was gone. The adrenaline was gone. All that was left was that tight ache in his chest, like someone was pulling each rib inward. “I didn’t mean for her to find out like that,” he muttered.
Leehan deadpanned, “you told us.”
“Yeah, because you’re my boys,” Riki snapped, pacing a short line on the sidewalk. “I didn’t think it’d turn into some weird telephone game while she was gone!”
“But you lied on your dick though. What type of cornball does that?” Shota shrugged obviously.
“I didn’t—” He inhaled, his fists curling up as he punched his palm—leaving it stinging.
Leehan sighed. “So you’re saying y’all fucked. She clearly holds the sentiment that you didn’t so…who’s lying?” He opened his hands, prepared to receive any type of clarity on the situation.
“It’s not even about who’s lying, how do I make her not angry enough to not want to punch me in the face?” He gestured to your house. “Bro, her temper is insane! She’s like a fucking chihuahua—”
Shota clapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes going wide. “Ooh, I’m telling on you.”
Leehan nodded gravely. “Yeah, we’re really gonna jump your ass then.”
Riki groaned, dragging both hands over his face. “I didn’t mean—I’m just saying she bites first and thinks later! She’s like—like—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Shota warned. “For your own safety.”
Riki let his hands drop, exasperated. “I’m being serious. She’s not gonna listen to me. She won’t even stand still long enough for me to get a sentence out. I—” He huffed. “I panicked, okay? I shouldn’t have said we—”
“Hooked up?” Leehan offered.
Riki shot him a dirty look. “Shut up. I know it was stupid.”
Shota crossed his arms. “Bro, she finished the year. She spends an extra few weeks on an isolated writing retreat. Missing time with us for whatever reason. She came home ready to hug you. And instead she got you with a blunt, a house full of gang extras, and a rumor that you two were bumping uglies behind her back. Of course she’s mad.”
Riki winced. “…Yeah.”
Leehan’s voice firm. “So start with the truth.”
Riki blinked at him like that was the most unreasonable suggestion ever. “What truth?”
“The real one,” Leehan said. “You said something happened. She said nothing happened. So which one is it? What are we actually dealing with here?”
Riki’s eyes flicked toward your house again—like the answer was written behind your window.
Shota said absentmindedly, lips pursed as he looked down at the dirt beneath his shoes. “She didn’t say nothing happened.”
“What?” Leehan furrowed his brows.
“She just got mad. She never said what did or didn’t happen.”
Riki walked backwards to his house, arms spread in vindication. “Hm. And you fuckers didn’t believe me.”
Leehan rolled his eyes so hard it was audible. “Relax, Socrates. All she confirmed is that she hates your guts.”
Shota pointed at Riki with a half-shrug. “Yeah, bro, don’t act like this is some big ‘gotcha.’ She didn’t say you were lying…but she also looked ready to kick your shit in.”
Riki dropped his arms, irritation sliding back in. “Still. None of you believed me.”
“Because your track record is dogshit,” Leehan said. “You lie about stupid shit all the time. One time you said you could backflip off Shota’s porch and you landed on his mom’s hibiscus.”
“Hey, that flowerbed recovered,” Riki muttered.
“No, it didn’t,” Shota said. “She still brings it up at family dinners.”
Riki threw his head back with a groan. “Bro, can we stay on topic?”
Leehan crossed his arms. “Cool. That means we’re back to the original question: what actually went down?”
Riki’s jaw ticked. He turned slightly, like the angle would help him dodge the question.
Shota wasn’t letting him. “Bro. We’ve known you since you had Lego hair. Just spit it out.”
A long beat.
Riki’s tongue pressed against his cheek, eyes dropping to the sidewalk. “I’ll catch y’all later.” He turned around fully to walk back up his steps.
“Wh—hey!” Shota calls out.
Shota jogged after him, grabbing the back of his tank like a mom snagging a toddler about to run into traffic. “You are not gonna hit us with the dramatic exit when you’re the one who started this whole novella.”
Riki yanked his shirt free with a scoff. “I didn’t start anything—”
“You literally did,” Leehan yelled from the sidewalk. “You started it with your mouth. And continued it with your mouth. And escalated it with your…actually? Still your mouth.”
Riki spun around, eyes wide, offended. “Can the both of you get off my jock? Damn!”
Shota pointed at him, calm and judgmental like an annoyed substitute teacher. “No. Because you’re being a loser. And I say that with love.”
Riki lifted both hands to his face, dragging them down like he could physically wipe the embarrassment off. “Y’all are the worst friends alive.”
“And yet,” Leehan said, stepping closer, “we’re the only ones who can save your dumbass from getting rocked by your girl.”
“She’s not my girl!” Riki snapped instantly, which absolutely no one believed.
Both boys blinked at him like he’d just said the sky was green.
Shota said. “And I’m Scooby Doo.”
Leehan pointed at the door behind Riki. “Stop stalling. We asked what happened. You clearly don’t want to say it. Why?”
Riki’s throat bobbed.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Shifted his weight.
Looked everywhere except at them.
Then booked it right into the house. Locking the door behind him with a click.
Shota and Leehan just stared at the locked door like it had personally offended them.
A beat.
Then another.
“…Did he just—?” Shota blinked.
“Yeah,” Leehan said flatly. “He ran.”
—
The rest of the night was a weird one. It felt like your college nights. Locked away in your space, biding the time until you were finally set free from the deadlines and expectations and able to leave. To be with your family but your friends most importantly.
All three of those boys meant something differently to you; and it almost made you worry about how your life would’ve transpired if you hadn’t been put next to them for talking too much.
Leehan was the diplomat. The water to everyone’s fire as the eldest one of the quartet. The one that spoke when you four were sent to the principal’s office for setting off a stinkbomb in Mrs. Jenson’s art class.
Shota was always in his own world. But he meant it for all of you. He was nearly impossible to hate to the point where if you were too mean to him, you’d start crying. Not only was he unreasonably peculiar at all times, he was the friend that you’d call in the middle of the night just to talk and he’d answer like he wasn’t mid rapid eye movement.
Riki was always very tricky. The rhyme was not intended, I promise. He was the wild card. The spark. The kid who lived like he had a personal vendetta against boredom. He’d drag you into trouble with a grin, swear you were overreacting, and then somehow sweet-talk the consequences down to a warning. He could charm adults, piss off authority, and get the three of you laughing in the same breath.
But he was also the one who always noticed.
When you were too quiet. When your knee bounced under the desk. When you smiled but didn’t mean it.
He’d nudge your foot with his sneaker. Or toss you a note. Or mouth a stupid joke until you cracked.
Riki was complicated. Not in the dramatic way—more in the “why does your chest feel weird when he looks at you too long” way.
Tonight he had you feeling everything except calm. You lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling like it contained answers or at least a refund policy for emotional tax. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that made your thoughts echo.
Shota, Leehan, Riki. Your boys. Your constants. Your headaches.
You exhaled slowly, sinking deeper into your mattress. You’d kill them before you ever lost them. Probably.
Just then, you nearly jumped out of your skin as you heard a sharp knock on your window. Turning your head to the right, you almost fell off your bed as Riki stood there—tall and looming over your window in a black hoodie.
He lifted a hand and knocked again—lighter this time, like that made it any less insane.
You hissed under your breath, scrambling off the bed and practically tripping over your blanket as you marched to the window. Sliding it up, you whispered harshly, “Are you out of your mind?!”
Riki blinked at you, equal parts guilty and stubborn. “You weren’t answering your phone.”
“So your next idea was breaking into my house?”
“It’s not breaking in if the window’s unlocked,” he shrugged, already hooking his fingers over the sill like he was about to climb in whether you liked it or not.
You smacked his hand. “Try it and I’m calling the cops.”
“You won’t.”
“I absolutely will.”
“You won’t,” he repeated, annoyingly sure.
He leaned closer, breath puffing in the cool night air. “Can you just—” His jaw clenched. “Let me talk to you.”
You crossed your arms. “Talk from out there.”
Riki shot you a look like you were being intentionally difficult. (You were.) “It’s cold.”
“It’s a Californian summer night, it’s sweater weather at best.” You shrug haphazardly.
“I’m anemic.”
“No. I’m anemic.”
“Same difference.”
“Go.” You lightly pushed him back and out of the windowsill. “Don’t you have gang members to go rob a bank with, hard-ass?”
Riki’s face twisted like you’d just accused him of running a puppy-smuggling ring. “Rob a—what?!” he whisper-yelled, gripping the window frame before you could shut it. “You think I’d rob a bank with them? Half those dudes can’t even do basic math!”
“Sounds like a personal problem,” you said, trying to pry his fingers off the sill.
He held on tighter.
You glared. He glared back, a standoff worthy of a Western, except you were in pajamas and he looked like a raccoon rifling through trash.
“Why are you still here?” you hissed.
“Because,” he snapped back in a whisper, “my name is getting dragged through the mud, my best friend hates me, my other two best friends think I’m an idiot—”
“They’re right.”
“—and you still won’t let me explain!”
You gripped the window and started lowering it—slowly, deliberately—like a villain pressing a big red button.
Riki’s eyes went huge. “Don’t you—don’t you dare close this window on me.”
You kept lowering it.
“Bro—” Down another inch.
“Are you serious right now—” Another inch.
He shoved his hand under the frame, blocking it like some tragic action hero trying to stop a garage door from crushing him. “I’m not finished!”
“You said plenty,” you replied, voice flat as drywall. “So we’re even.”
“I didn’t get to say anything!” he whisper-yelled, face squished awkwardly under the descending window. “Okay—I said a little. But not in the way you think—ow, that’s my knuckle—can you just—STOP—”
You paused just long enough for him to yank his hand out before he lost a finger.
He immediately slapped both palms on the windowsill, breathless, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “What is wrong with you?!”
“You came to my window at—” you checked the analog clock on the wall, “—one forty-six in the morning looking like you crawled out of a crime documentary and I’m the problem?”
He pointed at you, indignant. “Yes!”
You pushed the window down another inch. Closing it.
He groaned, “oh come on you can’t—” He watched you lower the blinds, your narrowed eyes the last thing he saw before you closed the curtains. “Please?” Riki sighed, leaning against the window as he called out. “Come on, open up for me? Please—”
The TV you had on only increased in volume.
Riki’s head thunked against the glass like he was trying to transfer his brain cells through osmosis. “Are you—are you SERIOUS right now? You’re gonna drown me out with The OC?!”
You didn’t answer.
Cue the theme music swelling louder.
“Boo.” Knock, knock, knock. “Bunnyboo, I know you hear me.”
Silence.
Another knock, faster. “Bro, don’t do me like this. At least yell at me through the glass. Throw something. Flip me off. Give me anything!”
You turned the TV up another two notches.
He pressed his forehead to the window again, palms flat, voice dropping low—half pleading, half warning. “Don’t make me climb in here. I swear to God, I will break in like a raccoon with a vendetta—”
A pillow smacked the glass from inside—the clanging of the blinds as it hit the hard surface.
He flinched. “…Okay. Message received.”
But he didn’t leave.
He stayed right there—pacing once, twice—before finally planting himself on the little strip of concrete beneath your window, sitting down like he paid rent there. Legs stretched out, hoodie bunched at his elbows, head tipped back against your siding. “Come on…” He whispered to himself.
He rubbed both hands over his face, dragging down like he could physically peel the stress off. “I’m gonna die out here,” he muttered. “She’s actually gonna let me freeze to death on suburban concrete. Damn.”
You muted the TV for two seconds—just long enough for him to perk up—before turning it right back on. He deflated so hard you could practically hear it.
“Wow,” he said to the night sky. “She’s evil. She’s actually evil. And she wonders why I lie awake at night thinking about—”
You whacked the window again with another pillow.
He jumped. “HEY—okay, okay! I take it back! You’re not evil, you’re just—” He paused, searching for something nice. “—temperamental.”
Another pillow hit the glass.
He held both hands up like he was being detained. “How many pillows do you have?!”
For a moment, he just sat there, breathing out shaky frustration, knees bent, arms draped loosely over them. The porch light cast him in soft gold, and for once he didn’t look like the loudmouthed, idiotic menace who’d started this whole mess.
He looked like someone who’d been losing his mind over you all night. And then—quietly, almost too quiet: “…Boo. Please let me fix this.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tapping anxiously.
“I didn’t tell them what you think I did,” he said, softer. “I swear. I didn’t make you look stupid. I didn’t—” His voice caught. “I didn’t disrespect you. Not the way you’re imagining.”
You froze behind the blinds.
He exhaled like the words tasted bitter. “I didn’t even tell them everything. Not the stuff that…mattered.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the roots.
“You think I’m out here playing around,” he said. “But I’m not. And I don’t know how to prove that when you won’t open the damn window.”
You didn’t move. He didn’t expect you to.
He tilted his head back against the siding again, eyes closing, breath leaving him in a quiet, frustrated laugh. “Fine,” he murmured. “I’ll sit out here all night if I have to.”
A pause.
“Knowing my dumbass? I probably will.”
Then, he heard movement from inside the house. Leaning into the siding did he lean up as his heart rate jumped. He stood up, brushing his sweats off as he walked around the front of the house. Only for him to be met with your mom—robe, bonnet, and sleepy-face in tow.
Riki froze mid-step, eyes widening like he’d just walked into a horror scene. “Uh…hi?” His voice cracked somewhere between sheepish and terrified.
Your mom blinked at him, hands on her hips, taking in the hoodie, the sweatpants, the midnight energy radiating off him like a storm cloud. “Riki Nishimura,” she said slowly, voice low but deadly calm. “What exactly are you doing on my lawn at—” she glanced at her phone—“almost two in the morning?”
“I—uh—” He raised his hands like a surrendering cartoon character. “I had to go to the store for Reo. I forgot my keys and now I’m locked out…” This wouldn’t be the first time he’s lied to your mom, it was just about whether she’d believe him. “I called him a few times and he’s not answering so…”
“So…you couldn’t go to either of the other boy’s houses? You had to come to my daughter’s?”
Riki’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He looked like a fish trying to talk its way out of being dinner. “Well—okay—hear me out,” he blurted, already panicking. “I would sleep at Shota’s but he snores insanely loud and the last time I did, he almost suffocated from the pillow I put over his face. And Leehan is entirely too particular about how I sleep like he wants the bed split right in—”
Your mom gave him a look so dry it could’ve dehydrated a cactus. “Inside. Now. Before I start asking real questions.”
Riki nodded so fast his hood nearly flew off. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”
But as he followed her toward the door, he couldn’t stop the tiny, hopeful glance he threw toward your window—praying you hadn’t heard any of that, even though he knew deep down…you definitely had.
He kicked his shoes off as he entered, “I promise I’ll be out—” he whispered.
“Shut up, you’re not a guest here. I love you, goodnight.” She yawned as she walked the opposite way to her room.
“Love you too, sleep well.” He whispered back.
Riki stood in the hallway like someone who’d just been adopted and arrested in the same breath. He watched your mom disappear down the hall, the soft shuffle of her slippers fading.
He took two small steps forward. Then froze when the floorboard under him squeaked loud enough to wake the dead. He saw your shadow moving around in your room from the small sliver of light that poked through the gap of the frame and door itself. His gut told him to speed up down the hall. To which he did—swiftly—before you could close the door on him.
But he beat you there, wedging himself in. “Gotcha.” He beamed, shimmying through as he closed it softly behind him.
“Are you crazy?” You whisper-yelled. “Coming into my house like this? Lying to my mom?!”
“I’m just as crazy as you are.” He unzipped his hoodie, tossing it onto the rack on your closet door. “Don’t act like you haven’t lied to Reo however many times—”
“That’s different. If we’re gonna be out late or something but—”
“Look, I don’t care about any of that. I came to fix things with you.” He stepped forward, ensuring you looked up at him. “Just hear me out…two minutes.” You studied him—hair messy from the wind, shirt rumpled, socks mismatched, eyes big and tired and a little frantic. You hated how familiar he looked in your room. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d slipped in after midnight.
“You get one.” You nod once. “And take off those dirty ass pants.” You sighed as you turned to your drawers. Scouring until you landed on a clean pair of black sweats.
With some rustling behind you, Riki stripped out of his pants. Revealing his black Calvin Klein boxers that you loved so much. That he knew you went crazy for.
“…Did you seriously just—?”
“What?” he said, way too innocent for someone in nothing but briefs in your bedroom at two in the morning. “You told me to take ‘em off.”
“I meant go change in the bathroom, you psychopath.”
He blinked. “Why would I walk all the way to the bathroom when your room is right here?”
You stared at him.
He stared back like this was the most logical sentence any human had ever spoken.
“Riki,” you said slowly, pointing the sweats at him like a weapon. “Put these on before I throw holy water at you.”
He snatched the pair from your hand with a tiny smirk—one he tried (and failed) to hide by looking down. “You always give me the soft ones,” he murmured, pulling them on.
“Well they’re yours…” you sigh, plopping right onto the edge of your bed.
He froze mid–pull, waistband halfway up his hips. “…What?”
You blinked at him. “What, what?”
He let the rest of the sweats snap into place, slow, like his brain was rebooting. “Did you just say they’re mine?”
You groaned, falling back on your palms. “Yes, Riki, congratulations, you own a pair of cotton-poly blend sweatpants. Don’t let it go to your head. So what? You’ve been here like a trillion times.”
But of course it did. You watched the shift happen in real time—his shoulders relaxing, his mouth tugging into that stupid boyish half‑smile he only ever got when he felt special.
He toed his discarded pants into a pile and padded over to you, the soft thud of his mismatched socks making him look criminally at-home in your space. “They’re mine,” he repeated, quieter this time. Like he’d just been handed a family heirloom instead of laundry.
You rolled your eyes. “Riki, don’t get sentimental, it’s literally the third time you’ve forgotten to take them back.”
He dropped down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “Still counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does,” he said, leaning back on his hands so his arm pressed along yours. “‘Cause that means when I come over…you expect me to stay.”
Your breath stuttered—just barely, but enough.
His voice softened. “And I know you’re pissed. And I know you’re pretending you’re not glad I’m here.” A beat. “But you said they’re mine.”
He nudged your knee with his. “Let me explain, Boo. Please.”
Your knee bounced, nerves bubbling up in the pit of your stomach as you looked down at your hands in your lap. “You promised, Riki. That you wouldn’t tell anyone what happened that night.”
Riki’s breath caught—not loud, not dramatic, just this tiny break in his chest like your words had clipped something vital. He didn’t move at first. Just stared at you, jaw set, eyes searching your profile like the truth might be written somewhere on your cheek. “I…I didn’t tell them in a malicious way.”
You turned your head as your anger bubbled up in your stomach. But he knew how to placate you. “No, no, no…listen. Look at me.” He gently grabbed your shoulders to turn you to face him. “Damn, you’re like a pitbull.”
You slapped his hands off your shoulders instantly. “Don’t call me a pitbull.”
“You are a pitbull,” he shot back, whisper‑yelling. “Small. Angry. Bites without warning.”
“I’m literally taller than you,” you snapped.
“You are not taller than—okay, you know what, that’s not the point.” He dragged a hand down his face, regrouping, then looked at you with that maddening mix of exasperation and adoration that made you want to smack him and kiss him in the same breath. “Listen to what I’m saying.”
You crossed your arms so hard your shoulders creaked.
He leaned forward, matching your intensity with his own. “I was just doing it for your protection.” He watched your face blend into confusion. “Not from the guys, from the guys my brother deals with.”
“Um…?”
“While you were gone, some of them were saying that they were gonna get at you when you came back. Obviously by that point, me and you already…” He trailed off. “And it was under wraps. But the way they were talking,” he shook his head, his tongue poking his cheek as he recalled the repulsive language. “I had to ‘claim’ you. Let them know you were mine.”
“I’m not an object, Riki.”
“I know, Boo. I know. I didn’t wanna put you in that position but I had to for the sake of those guys leaving you alone when you got back.”
Your brows pulled together, the heat in your chest shifting—still anger, but now tangled with something colder, sharper. “That’s not protection,” you said quietly.
Riki winced like you’d flicked him right in the soul. “I know. I know that. And if there was any other way—literally any—I would’ve taken it.”
You stared at him, trying to read past the excuses, past the dramatics, past the Riki-isms he wrapped himself in like bubble wrap. But his eyes weren’t dodging. Nor were they defensive. Just tired. And tense. And…a little fearful.
Your voice softened a notch. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
He huffed out a laugh—dry, humorless, one shoulder lifting. “Because you’d say exactly what you’re saying now. That I don’t get to ‘claim’ you. That you’re not a trophy. That you don’t need saving.” He added, “plus by that time you were at your retreat, didn’t have your phone. Was I supposed to send a smoke signal? Letter in a bottle?”
“It would’ve been appreciated.” You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I can’t stand you sometimes.”
Riki groaned, “dude, you’re so immature.”
“Me?!” You gasped, “I’m immature yet you fold under zero pressure and stutter when you lie?”
“Don’t do that. We’re grown now, I shouldn’t even be lying to anybody.”
“Right. So telling your groupies about our night of passion was sooo grown?”
He smiled, boyishly. “So you thought there was passion?” Slowing reaching his hand over to your waist before you smacked it away.
“No! I’m just saying that you’re a dick and never consider me for anything. Not me, Leehan, or Shota.”
Riki looked at you like you had three heads. “Are you—what are you talking about?”
You scoffed, “how did they even find out? Leehan told me that only he and Shota knew. Now you’re saying that—”
“I told them after the fact so they wouldn’t have to hear it from anybody else!” He stood up, “gosh, how low do you think I am? Like, do you really think I’m just some loser?”
Your head snapped up at his tone. He wasn’t yelling, but the hurt in his voice sliced sharp enough.
“Riki, that’s not—”
“No, because you’re talking like I’m out here giving press conferences about our business.” He pointed at himself, brows furrowed, genuinely offended. “You think I’d embarrass you like that? You think I’d embarrass myself like that?”
You opened your mouth, shut it, then crossed your arms tighter. “I think you do dumb things without thinking.”
His laugh was one sharp exhale. “Yeah? So do you.”
“That is not the point—”
“It is,” he cut in, stepping closer, eyes locked on yours with that frustrating intensity that made your stomach flip. “Because you’re acting like I’m some clown who doesn’t care about you. Like I’d run around bragging about us to look cool. That’s not me. That’s never been me.”
You faltered. Just a hiccup. Barely noticeable—except he noticed everything. “So telling people about us having sex on a summer night—”
“God, what do you not get?!” He put his hands out in frustration, “I didn’t tell anyone for fun! Or to lie on my dick—not that it was even a lie. I did it because otherwise, you’d have some weird ass guys pushing up on you and I can’t have that. For my sanity or your safety.”
You sighed dramatically, crossing your arms as you looked away from him. Turning your head away like you were a child.
“Look at me.” Riki said firmly but to no avail.
“Hm.” You shrugged as you crossed your legs. Your bare legs rubbing together over your checkered pajama shorts.
He shook his head. “Dude, you need to grow the fuck up and stop acting like a petulant child.”
You snapped your head back toward him so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. “Petulant?” you echoed, voice shooting up an octave. “Oh, wow. Big word. Did you eat a dictionary for breakfast or—”
“See?” he barked, throwing his hands up. “That! That right there!”
“What right there?!”
“You act like you don’t care but then you get mad like you care the most.” He pointed at you like you were a math problem he’d been failing for years. “You can’t even look at me without doing the dramatic little eye-roll-head-turn combo—”
“I do not—”
“You do,” he cut in, stepping forward, voice firm, eyes sharp. “You’re doing it right now.”
Your jaw dropped. “I am not—”
“You are,” he repeated, exasperated beyond mortal comprehension. “And it’s fine—like, it’s actually kinda cute when you’re not actively trying to ruin my life—but right now? Right now I need you to stop pretending you’re five years old and actually hear me.”
You scoffed so loud the walls probably shook. “Five years old? Riki, I swear to God—”
“No, seriously.” He crouched down a bit so he was more level with you, eyes narrowing just enough to make your pulse jump. “Grow. Up.”
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened.
You were halfway to telling him off when he added, annoyingly soft:
“I’m trying to talk to you. Not fight. Not yell. Talk. But you’re making it impossible.”
You blinked at him, chest tight, fury and embarrassment and something dangerously close to vulnerability twisting together.
His voice dropped low. “Stop looking away from me. I hate when you do that.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He leaned in, jaw tight. “And it makes me feel like you don’t care.”
That sentence froze you mid-breath. “…What?” you whispered.
Your heartbeat kicked up so loudly you were sure he could hear it. You sat there, arms crossed, shoulders tense, but eyes finally—finally—on him.
Riki looked back at you with an honesty that stripped every smart remark right off your tongue.
“Stop acting like I’m some villain,” he murmured. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.” He reached up, brushing a curl that fell out of your ponytail—behind your ear. “And with that funky ass temper, I can’t get a word in.”
You stare at him for a moment, tilting your chin to the side his hand was on as your eyes flit to the side. Like you were almost embarrassed to enjoy physical touch from him. “Riki.”
“Yes?”
“How long have you known me for? Do you remember?”
His hand froze halfway down your cheek like you’d just hit him with a pop quiz he absolutely did not study for.
“…Huh?” he blinked.
You sighed, leveling him with a stare that could’ve melted steel. “How long have you known me? Since when?”
Riki straightened, shoulders pulling back as if bracing for impact. “Since we were seven.”
“And in all those years,” you continued, voice low, “has there ever been a moment where my mouth hasn’t gotten me or one of us into some type of trouble?”
He pursed his lips in thought, his eyes seeming to search through the crevices of his brain. “Um…no not really.” Riki looked back from ages seven to twenty—trying to assess when your sharp tongue and impulsive actions hadn’t done them well.
“See?” You smiled in jest. “And you guys just accept me for me. This is who I am. And the fact that you hate it now all of a sudden—”
Riki rolls his eyes, frustration flaring in his chest. “No one’s saying we don’t accept you,” he retorts, his tone firm. “But just because we’ve put up with your bullshit for years doesn’t mean you can’t be held accountable for your words and actions. This isn’t some free pass to act like a brat whenever you want.”
“Yes it is!” You laugh, “because I accept you for all your shit. You’re like a diet version of me.”
Riki’s whole face twisted, “please. You’re the most mini-me of anyone I know.”
“Are you trying to son me?”
Riki laughed, leaning into you as he laid his head on your shoulder. “You are my son, you wanna be like me soooo bad.”
You shoved his forehead lightly. “Shut up.”
He blinked at you, affronted. “Don’t hit your daddy.”
You smacked him again.
“HEY—”
“Keep talking like that,” you warned, “and I’m putting you in the home early.”
He leaned back, pointing at you like you were the crazy one. “You can’t put me in the home. You’re my dependent.”
“Riki, I am older than you.”
“That’s what makes this so embarrassing for you,” he said, absolutely delighted with himself. “Imagine being older and still being my mini-me.”
Your eye twitched so violently he had to bite back a laugh.
Then he softened, just a little—head tilting, voice dropping. “Come on, Boo. I’m messing with you.” His shoulder nudged yours. “You know I don’t think of you like that.” Leaning his head back on your shoulder as he reached down for your hand. “I’m sorry, again.”
You tried—tried—to keep your spine stiff, arms crossed, jaw tight. But the second his fingers brushed yours, your whole posture betrayed you. Your hand didn’t curl around his, but it didn’t pull away either. It just…sat there. Suspiciously compliant.
You exhaled, staring at the wall like it might give you divine guidance.
“I know.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I messed up. I scared you. I made you feel played. I talked too much, I didn’t talk enough—I know.” He lifted his head just enough to look at you. “But I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear to God, Boo, every dumb thing I did was me trying to keep you safe.”
Your throat tightened despite every effort to swallow the feeling down.
“And I know you don’t like being protected,” he added, voice threading into something shy. “But you matter to me. In a way that makes it hard to think straight sometimes.”
Ever since you could remember meeting him, Riki had been your protector. And the worst part? He’d never even asked for the job.
He just…took it.
The kid who yanked you out of trouble before you even recognized it. The teenager who stood in front of you during every argument you started. The grown man now sitting in your bedroom at two in the damn morning, wearing your/his pants and looking at you like you were the whole reason he learned how to fight in the first place.
His knuckles grazed your jaw as he leaned in, nudging your cheek with his nose the way he always did when he was trying to make you smile. It worked—of course it did—your laugh spilling out small and helpless. “Your hero, your knight…” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. The smile that followed wasn’t cocky or teasing, but something almost…bashful. Like he couldn’t believe he’d earned the right to say it out loud. “Remember?”
But the word hero didn’t even begin to cover it.
He’d been a shadow and a shield, a tether and a torch—always one step ahead of whatever chaos you were about to fling yourself into. He carried your messes like they weighed nothing, shouldered your storms like they were summer rain. Half the time you wondered if he’d been assigned to you at birth, like some overworked guardian angel who accidentally got attached.
And you did remember. Every version of him. Every moment he’d stepped between you and the world like it was instinct. Like saving you was simply something he knew how to do—before he even knew how to save himself.
“Mhm,” you nodded—barely, quietly, like admitting it too loudly might crack something wide open between you.
His eyes softened even more at that tiny sound, as if your agreement carried an entire lifetime of shared secrets. His fingers slipped from your jaw to the side of your neck, feather-light, tracing the spot he always touched when he was trying to ground you…or ground himself. You could feel the tremor hiding in his thumb. He was steady for everyone else—impenetrable, unshakable—but with you? His armor always rattled just a little.
“Good,” he whispered, almost like he needed reassurance. Like he was afraid you might’ve forgotten who he’d always tried to be for you.
You hadn’t. God, you hadn’t.
If anything, the memories rose up all at once—him grabbing your sleeve before you stepped into the street at eight years old, him taking the blame for something you’d said at twelve, him pulling you behind him during the campfire argument at fifteen, eyes dark and jaw set like he’d burn the whole forest down before he let someone talk to you sideways. Him now, sitting inches from you, still trying to guard you from something invisible in the room.
He leaned in a little closer, forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice lowering like the hour demanded honesty. “I always wanted to be that for you,” he said. “Even when you didn’t need me to be.”
Your chest tightened—not painfully, but in that terrifyingly sweet way that told you he meant every word. “It’s not like I need you anyway…” You smile shyly as you nudge him with your elbow.
“No?” He laughed, “you don’t need me, Boo?” He beamed, wrapping his arms around your waist—pulling your side into him.
You shook your head, “nope—oof! Dude—”
Burying his face into your neck as he blew raspberries into it, he pulled you back flat onto the bed as you both laughed. You hit the mattress with a soft thud, breath catching in your throat before dissolving into helpless laughter. “Riki—stop—!” you wheezed, kicking a leg uselessly as he doubled down, arms locked around you like he’d been waiting all night for an excuse to tackle you.
He blew another loud, obnoxious raspberry against your neck, the kind that made your whole body jolt. “Don’t need me, huh?” he taunted, his words muffled against your skin as he climbed on top of you. “Say it again. Go ahead. I dare you.”
You tried to twist away, but his grip only tightened, warm and solid and stupidly comforting. “I don’t—!” you squeaked, halfway grinning, halfway choking on your own breath. “I don’t need—Riki, seriously—!”
“Liar,” he declared, without even giving you a chance to finish, pressing his forehead into the curve of your shoulder like you were some sort of pillow he owned. “Biggest liar I’ve ever met.”
You fought him for another second—maybe two—before your muscles gave out in that familiar way they always did around him. The laughter faded into a soft, breathless quiet, the room still humming with the echo of it. His weight settled over you, heavy and warm, like he’d decided this was his new home address.
He exhaled against your neck, softer this time—pressing a gentle kiss there before he raised his head. Nose to nose with you as you both smiled when your eyes met, his voice dropping back to something unbearably gentle. “How was school? You haven’t found my replacement yet, huh?”
“Nuh-uh…no one could ever replace you.”
His lips quirked—not into that smug little smirk he wore when he was winning, but something smaller, almost startled. Like he hadn’t expected you to hand him an answer that soft, that honest, without putting up some kind of fight first.
His fingers brushed your waist, thumb tracing slow, unconscious circles like he was memorizing the shape of you. “Yeah?” he murmured, the word barely more than a breath. “You saying I’m…irreplaceable?”
You rolled your eyes, but it came out ruined—too fond, too warm. “That’s literally what ‘no one could ever replace you’ means.”
His thumb paused mid-circle on your waist, the warmth of his touch lingering like a question he was scared to ask out loud.
“Yeah, but…” he said slowly, eyes flicking over your face as if trying to read something between your lashes. “You say stuff like that and then pretend we’re just—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Nothing.”
Your breath caught. Not because he was wrong, but because he was painfully, dangerously right. “We are nothing,” you said a little too quickly, a little too defensively. “Like—we have to be. You know how it’d look if anyone found out.”
Riki stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was green. “How it’d look to who? Our friends?”
“Yes!” You sat up slightly, annoyed that he wasn’t getting it. “If they think I’m sneaking around with you, it’s gonna make everything weird. I don’t want Leehan or Shota or anybody else thinking there’s…a thing. I don’t want a rift.”
“A rift,” he repeated, deadpan. “You think you and me laughing at two in the morning in your bed is gonna break up the Fantastic Four?”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.” He tugged you a tiny bit closer by your hip, eyes locked on yours. “Boo, we’ve gotten through worse. They’re not gonna fall apart because we—” He hesitated, jaw working. “—because we care about each other differently now.”
You swallowed hard, your voice smaller now. “I just don’t want them picking sides.”
His expression softened like melting wax. He leaned his forehead to yours again, gentler this time. “No one’s picking sides. Not unless you start picking fights again, and even then I’m still betting on you.”
You snorted, the tension easing just an inch.
He took the opportunity, slipping a hand up your back, grounding you with his warmth. “Look,” he murmured, “I get not wanting to make waves. I do. But don’t pretend this is nothing just to keep the peace.”
Your heartbeat thudded once, sharp and loud.
“Because it’s not nothing,” he whispered. “Not to me.”
“I know, Riki…Just—please?” You bring your hand up to his cheek, brushing his chiseled jaw. Though he shook his head slowly with soft eyes, you whispered—lips brushing against his as you mumbled. “Please, for me? Please…?”
His breath hitched the second your lips grazed his—soft enough to deny, close enough to ruin him. His eyes fluttered half-shut, like he couldn’t decide whether to lean in or back away before he did something stupid. “Baby…” His voice was barely sound now, more exhale than words. You felt it against your mouth, warm and shaky. “You know I’d do anything you asked.”
You nudged closer—not kissing him, not quite, just letting the shape of him press into the shape of you. Your palm was warm on his jaw, your thumb sweeping the curve of his cheekbone. His breath stuttered again. “But you’re asking me to pretend,” he murmured, eyes opening fully. “To pretend I don’t…feel this. With you. About you.”
Your fingers flexed at his skin, and he shivered.
“I’m not asking you to pretend,” you whispered back. “I’m just asking you to help me protect what we already have. Before anyone else gets involved. Before it turns into drama or sides or expectations. I just…want us. Quietly. Carefully.”
His jaw clenched under your hand—less anger, more restraint. The kind he only ever showed with you.
“And if I say yes,” he asked, voice low, “does that mean I only get you in moments like this? When the door’s closed and everyone’s asleep?”
Your throat bobbed.
“If that’s what it takes to make sure that we don’t ruin our group.” you whispered.
For a beat, he didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you, his forehead pressing to yours like he was steadying himself on the only thing that hadn’t ever failed him.
Then he exhaled, long and quiet, his hand sliding from your back to cradle the side of your neck. “Fine,” he murmured. “For you.” His nose brushed yours, gentle, aching. “But don’t ask me to act like you don’t mean something to me. Even if no one else gets to know yet.”
His thumb traced your throat, slow, deliberate. “I can’t fake that. Not even for you.”
—
The next morning
—
“Cousin?!” Leehan called out to his mom as she moved through the kitchen. “What cousin?!”
Mrs. Kim sighed as she chopped up vegetables, using the knife as a pointer to gesture to the basket of laundry on the counter that she needed her son to fold. “My friend from high school, Alexa, is sending her daughter to go to school here.”
With a roll of the eye, “school or university? Neither start for another month and a half.” He goes to fold some of the shirts in the basket. Tucking in the small ones of his younger brother and sister.
“She got into USC. I thought she could stay here, hang out with you and your friends. Just to get acclimated.” She says, looking down as she chops up a carrot. “Her mom’s staying back in Honduras where they live now and she just wanted to get out. See the world other than where she’s from. You get it.”
Leehan sighed, “we don’t need another buddy; and why do we need another person in here? It’s already crowded as is.” His little siblings breeze past him, pushing him into the counter as they giggle—running amok in the kitchen and living room.
Mrs. Kim slammed the knife down with a sneer. “No playing in the living room! Go in the yard!”
The two little ones scattered instantly, shrieking as they bolted for the back door. Leehan winced, rubbing the spot on his hip where a rogue elbow had caught him. “See?” he muttered. “Chaos. Pure chaos. And you wanna add another college student into this circus?”
His mom didn’t even look up as she slid the carrots into a bowl. “She’s not just any college student. She’s Alexa’s daughter. And she’s never lived away from home before. She’ll need support.”
“Support,” he echoed flatly. “Right. And by support you mean me.”
Mrs. Kim shot him a look that could level a grown man. “I mean all of us. But especially you. You’re the oldest. Responsible. Reliable.”
He blinked. “Mom, you asked me to unclog the shower last week and I nearly passed out from the smell.”
“Exactly,” she said, patting his cheek. “Builds character.”
He groaned into the laundry basket. “And what’s her name?” he asked, voice muffled in defeat.
“Xiomara.”
Leehan lifted his head like she’d just announced they were adopting a Bengal tiger. “Xiomara?” he repeated, slowly, like the name itself was a threat. “Mom, that sounds like a girl who walks into a room and immediately ruins my life.”
Mrs. Kim swatted his arm with a dish towel. “She’s very sweet!”
“That’s what people said about Riki before he started bossing me around,” he muttered.
From outside, one of his little siblings shrieked triumphantly, followed by a loud thump. Mrs. Kim didn’t even flinch. “You’ll take her around, introduce her to your friends, show her the area—”
“Mom.”
“—help her move in, make sure she’s eating—”
“Mom.”
“—maybe drive her to orientation—”
“Mom!”
Finally, she looked up.
“What?”
“I’m not a babysitter,” he huffed. “I barely babysit them.” He pointed out the window where one of the kids was trying to climb the garden hose like it was a rope in gym class.
Mrs. Kim clicked her tongue as she went to chop some garlic. “She’s not a baby. She’s eighteen.”
Leehan’s soul left his body. “EIGHT—Mom, that’s literally barely legal! I can’t be seen hanging out with a kid! I’m twenty! People will think I’m recruiting!”
Mrs. Kim pursed her lips, squinting her eyes as she clutched the knife tighter in her hands. No words were spoken as she tapped the surface slowly.
Leehan froze.
Not because she looked angry—but because that tap? That knife-tap? That was the “choose your next words like your life depends on it” tap.
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay. Alright. That came out wrong.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He gulped.
“What I meant,” he corrected quickly, “was that—uh—eighteen is…young. Very young. Like ‘still doesn’t know which side of the street has the bus stop’ young.”
His mother didn’t blink. “Continue.”
“And!” he added, voice cracking like a man under interrogation, “—and I am not qualified for mentorship. I’m barely feeding myself on time. I had cereal for dinner yesterday.”
“That’s because you refused to eat the stew I made.”
“It had mushrooms!”
Tap. Tap.
He winced.
Mrs. Kim sighed through her nose, the way women do when they’ve raised three children, a husband, and apparently now one extra stray. “She is not a kid. She is a guest. A guest who will be living under my roof. Which means she will be treated like family.”
Leehan nodded rapidly. “Right. Family. Like a sibling.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Perfect,” he said.
A beat.
“Except,” she raised a brow, “you will not treat her like you treat your siblings.”
He blinked. “Why not?”
“Because you terrorize them.”
“I don’t.” He shakes his head.
“I’m not arguing with you, son.”
“Fine.” He nods in relent. “So…where’s she gonna sleep?”
“Your room.”
The words landed like a brick to the skull.
Leehan straightened slowly, arms going stiff at his sides. “My…room,” he repeated, making sure he hadn’t misheard. “As in—my room, where I sleep. Where my stuff lives. Where I—exist.”
“Yes,” his mother said simply, drying her hands on a towel. “She needs a space that’s clean and quiet. And yours is the only one that makes sense.”
He stared at her, chest tight. “Mom, my room is my only space. The only place in this entire house that’s not—” he gestured around at the chaos, the abandoned toys, the scribbles on the fridge, the sticky handprints on the cupboards— “that.”
“I know,” she said, and her voice wasn’t sharp this time. It was steady. Unmoving. “Which is why I’m trusting you with this.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. The weight behind her words was unmistakable.
“She’s coming here alone,” Mrs. Kim continued softly. “No family. No support system. No familiarity. She’s walking into a country she doesn’t know, a language she barely uses, a school she’s hardly seen. She’s still a child to her mother, no matter how old she is.”
Leehan’s breath stalled.
“She needs safety,” she said. “And stability. She needs someone who won’t overwhelm her or talk down to her. At least give her sympathy.”
He pressed his lips together, throat tightening.
“And you,” she added, looking him in the eyes now, “are the one I trust the most to give her that. Not because you’re perfect. But because you’re my son and I raised you to take care of people always.”
Silence.
A thick, heavy silence.
He let out a slow breath. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll move my things.”
Mrs. Kim nodded, relieved—but not triumphant. “Thank you.”
He stared at the floor, at the laundry basket, at nothing in particular.
“…What’s she like?” he asked after a moment. Not annoyed. Not sarcastic. Just…trying to understand the person stepping into his life.
His mom paused, thinking. “Smart,” she said. “Kind. Quiet. More observant than she lets on. But she's a nice girl, you guys would like her.”
He nodded once.
Then again.
“Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll be good to her.”
“I know you will.”
A beat passed—the kind that settles into the air, makes everything feel more real.
“What time does her flight get in?” he asked.
“One hour.”
His eyes widened. “Mom—”
“Go,” she said, waving him off. “Take the car, I’ll move your stuff.”
He grabbed his keys, heart pounding as he jogged toward the door.
And as he makes his way out to the beat up driveway, he comes across you walking up his porch. He steps back, soft laughter as he puts his hands up in defense. “Woah…gonna bite my head off, Chihuahua?”
“Shut up,” you cross your arms—rolling your eyes as you resist a laugh. “I left my bag here yesterday. I’ve come to retrieve it.”
He nods affirmatively, brushing past you as he gently yanks a curl of yours on his way down the steps. “It’s in my closet.”
You reached down to swat his arm. “Where you going?”
He turns back, one foot already on the next step, breath still a little fast from the sprint out of the house. The sunlight catches on his face, softening everything he’s trying so hard to keep steady.
“Airport,” he says simply.
Your brows pull together. “Now?”
He huffs—short, almost incredulous—as if he just realized the timing doesn’t make any damn sense either. “Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Apparently I’m a morning person now.”
You blink at him. “Since when?”
“Since today,” he says, dead serious.
There’s no joke behind it. No smirk. He’s standing there looking wired, focused, too awake for someone who hasn’t even had breakfast yet.
You tilt your head, studying him. Something in his voice is different—quieter, heavier. “Family?”
He hesitates. Just long enough for the truth to flash across his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Kind of.”
“Can I ride with you?” You shrug, “I’m bored and I have literally nothing else to do.”
He jerks his chin toward the driveway, already moving, steps quick and purposeful. You follow him down the porch, your shoulder brushing his for half a second—a tiny contact, but he feels it. You can tell by the way his breath stutters before he masks it. Annoyance but patient in some way.
The car beeps unlocked.
He opens the passenger door for you without a word. You lean against the door before you sit, preparing to ask him something. But as you do, a voice calls out:
“Oi! Where are you two off to?”
You both turn to see Shota coming from across the street—backpack in tow as he bounces over. His dyed, blond hair shining in the beaming sun. “You two know I have attachment issues.”
You laugh softly as you brush your hair off your shoulder. “Ask your best friend, his mood is shot.”
Leehan sighed, “my mood isn’t anything, Bun—I just have to go and you’re making me late.”
“Late for what?!” Another voice calls across the street.
It was weird, yet convenient how your guys’ houses were lined up. The best way to describe it would be akin to a square and its vertices. Right beside Leehan was your house. Directly parallel to you was Riki, then parallel to Leehan was Shota.
Riki jogs down his driveway, one hand raking through his hair, the other shoving his keys into his pocket like he’s already annoyed at the world and hasn’t even reached the sidewalk yet.
He eyes the three of you gathered around Leehan’s half-opened car door. “What’s happening?” he asks, breath a little uneven like he’d been rushing.
Shota throws his hands up dramatically. “A betrayal is happening. They were about to leave me. Again.”
Leehan’s jaw flexes. “No one’s betraying anyone. I just have somewhere to be.”
Riki’s gaze flicks to you, quick and sharp, then to Leehan—reading the tension instantly. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Leehan mutters.
You answer for him. “He’s lying. Obviously. He opened the car door for me without calling me a dickhead. I’m concerned.”
Shota gasps like you’ve announced a national emergency. “Oh that’s new.”
Leehan drags a hand down his face. “Can you three—just this once—not be—”
“Entertaining?” Shota offers.
“Observant?” Riki adds.
“Inconveniencing?” you finish.
He looks heavenward, praying for strength. Then he jerks his thumb at the car. “Just get in. All of you.”
“Yay!” You and Shota cheered simultaneously. Riki smiled softly as he opened the back passenger door for the older guy to get in.
Shota slid in the backseat, putting his backpack down by his feet—settling into the seat as he fanned himself. “Can you turn the AC on? It’s like a toaster oven in here.”
Leehan makes his way around the van. “The car’s not even on yet, genius.”
Riki snorts, “move over,” he tapped the top of the van as he waited for Shota to shimmy to the other side. But before he could even put his leg in, a deep, raspy voice—diagonal from the driveway called out for him. “Riki!”
All four of your guys’ attention went in the direction of the sound. The birds chirped over the white noise of the block as somehow the sky clouded over. Reo.
You sighed, rolling your eyes as you turned your back again. Leaning against the car with your arms crossed.
Reo was already discussed previously. Not in any depth anyway because as much as he seemed to matter to Riki—he mattered to you as well.
As an enemy.
As an older brother, though, he was Riki’s sole caregiver and provider amidst their parents not being around. While Reo had to juggle being fifteen and taking care of his ten year old brother, he ensured that Riki was in school, was fed, and had what he needed to essentially have a normal childhood just as anyone else.
However, as Riki grew and started to demand (not literally, but metaphorically) the presence of their mom and dad—Reo didn’t know how to handle it. Couldn’t fathom or configure the idea of wearing so many different hats at once. Mom, dad, brother, nurse, personal wallet, cheerleader, chauffeur until Riki was sixteen, the list goes on.
Leehan, Shota, and you had always had the luxury of support by parental figures—something Riki didn’t have—but it was always afforded to him. Never did any of your parents turn him or Reo away for anything because they knew how hard their circumstances were. But no one dared to call social services because it meant that both boys would be lost in the abyss of the American foster care system and of course, everyone has heard such great things about what happens there.
If either of them needed food because Reo’s check didn’t clear—they got it. Christmas gifts. Clothes. Hot water. Anything in the world, those boys had it as long as you, Shota, and Leehan did.
But once Reo graduated high school (with a C average, just by the skin of his teeth)—he knew to follow in the legacy that his father had left him with—R12. Leaving him to stay in Freeridge and get Riki through middle school, high school, and everything else.
And things seemed fine. Reo was going to work. Participating in the gang dealings that both boys seemed to be familiar with but the older they got, the more the cracks started to show.
Riki learned how to be multiple people at once—a friend, support system, an advocate for all three of you…and Reo’s little brother, the kid everyone in R12 kept an eye on because Reo would set the whole block on fire if anything happened to him.
But it was a lot more complex than that. Reo ensured Riki wasn’t touched, ensuring he didn’t lose his respect. But something shifted once Riki turned fifteen.
He stopped caring about the sanctity of Riki’s youth. Disregarded everything that mattered when it came to his brother.
Riki had dreams. Ones that seemed small to others but too big for Freeridge.
And it was simple: make it out.
Since he was a kid, Riki had wished upon a star, tossed a coin into a fountain, closed his eyes extra hard during every birthday wish, wrote a million times under his pillow—for his entire life—the same wish.
To leave.
Not to abandon, not to forget—just to escape the gravity of a place that had never loved him gently. Riki wanted sunlight without bars across it, air without someone else’s name on it, choices that weren’t choreographed by a gang legacy he never asked to inherit.
Reo saw that dream as an insult.
Because to him, leaving meant rejecting the only thing he had ever been good at. The only thing that kept a roof over their heads. The only thing that made him valuable in a world that chewed him up at fifteen and spit him out as a man.
So when Riki talked about getting out—going to college, traveling, anything that didn’t involve the R12 sign—Reo didn’t hear hope. Just betrayal.
And that’s when the shift happened. No more rides to practice. No more checking if Riki ate. No more showing up to school events pretending he wasn’t bone-tired.
Instead—cold orders. Sharp warnings. A hardness that didn’t belong in a home but lived there anyway.
Reo stopped seeing Riki as a kid. Stopped seeing him as a brother. Started seeing him as a liability—someone who wanted to run from the very life Reo had bled to keep intact for him.
Riki never said it out loud, not to you, not to anyone. But every time Reo’s voice cut through the street, every time those R12 men watched him too closely, every time his shoulders went rigid—
You could tell. Because you knew these three like yourself. If you were an impulsive, neurotic, hotheaded chihuahua then Leehan was a pressured, ticking time bomb with oldest sibling syndrome. Shota was a mildly deluded individual that blocked out the negativity in the world by living by his rules. Like Riki was a hurricane contained in a bottle—soft and mesmerizing one moment, destructive and untamable the next. He absorbed everything around him—the chaos, the expectations, the danger—and carried it with a grace that no one else could sustain. But inside, that wish to escape, to be free of Freeridge and the shadows of R12, was a constant pressure, a weight that bent him without breaking him.
And you could see it in the way he flinched when Reo’s name was mentioned, in the subtle tension in his shoulders when someone lingered too long on the block, in the way he smiled a little too hard, laughed a little too loud, just to convince himself he was still okay.
He was caught between worlds: the world he wanted, and the world that had claimed him before he even knew how to fight for himself. And you—well, you understood that storm better than anyone.
The older brother in question jogged across the street. His gaze never left his little brother the whole time. When he finally made it to the driveway, Reo—now twenty-five—stood before you and everyone.
Him and Riki were exactly the same height. A nice six foot one. Reo’s presence hit like a wall, all angles and edges and deliberate weight. His hair, dark and cropped close on the sides, caught the sun in streaks of bronze where it had faded at the tips. His jaw was sharp, square, defined, with the faintest shadow of stubble that made him look older than his twenty-five years. Eyes like storm clouds—a very dark brown—hovered between calculating and exhausted, the kind of eyes that had seen too much too young.
Broad shoulders, strong arms, and a chest that filled out his fitted shirt made him look like he could carry the weight of the street on his back. Even his stance—feet planted just so, fists loose but ready—spoke of someone who had fought to keep everything together, someone who moved with both authority and quiet warning. Every detail about him—the set of his brow, the crease at the corner of his mouth, the way his gaze flicked to Riki first—was a reminder that he wasn’t just an older brother. He was a force.
But he wasn’t impolite.
He scanned the rest of you three with a masked smile. Bending down slightly, poking his head into the van—he caught Shota’s view. “Hi, Shota.”
The guy nodded silently, waving his hand as he put one of his wired earbuds in.
“Donghyun,” he nodded as he looked at Leehan—who leaned against the car with his hands and opened his palm. Hardly smiling but just enough to acknowledge the elder.
Then finally, his eyes fell to you. More like your side profile as you refused to even look at him. The last time you laid eyes on him was the day you left for college—so nearly a year ago. You hadn’t visited during breaks, money was too tight for you to come back and forth.
Watching him stand on the sidewalk beside his younger brother as the three of you all drove onto the next part of your lives was probably the most sadistic thing you’ve seen out of him. The memory was like a picture in your mind. Him, resting a hand on Riki’s shoulder as their eyes hadn’t left you. Like he was reminding him of what he never wanted to come to fruition for Riki.
“Bunnyboo…” he called out with a smile. “You look beautiful. I’ve missed you.”
You stiffened at the voice, the familiar tone threading through the warm morning air, carrying all the weight of his presence. That smile—something in it was the same as before, teasing yet measured, like he had rehearsed it a thousand times to keep control—but there was an undercurrent there, an edge of something almost vulnerable, something carefully tucked beneath the force of his usual armor.
“Hm.” You inhaled, arms tightening as you crossed them.
He probed on though, “you’ve grown. You still carry your Bratz dolls in your backpack?”
You scoff, smacking your teeth. “That was like fifteen years ago.”
Reo chuckled, a low, controlled sound that somehow carried both amusement and a trace of disbelief. “That long, huh? I feel like that’s the kind of thing that sticks with you forever,” he said, eyes flicking briefly to the gold, nameplate necklace with your actual name on it. The one you wore every single day since you were a kid. There was a softness in that look, fleeting, but it was there—an acknowledgment of the person you were then, the person you’d become.
You rolled your eyes, brushing a curl behind your ear. “Yeah, well, some of us grow up,” you said, trying for a casual tone, though your voice carried just enough bite to hint that you weren’t entirely relaxed.
He took your jab and let it roll down his back. His tongue poked his cheek as he turned to Riki. “We got business.”
Riki’s shoulders tensed, the familiar flicker of unease crossing his features. “Business? Now? At nine in the morning?” His voice carried a note of incredulity that didn’t quite mask the edge of confusion.
Reo didn’t look at him, didn’t even blink. His gaze was fixed, sharp, deliberate, scanning the block like he already knew every corner, every potential obstacle. “Now,” he said again, voice low but iron-strong. “We move fast, or it’s done before it even starts.”
You leaned back slightly against the car, arms still crossed, observing the quiet, absolute command in his posture. Every movement was deliberate, economical—Reo didn’t waste energy on theatrics. Even the way he stood beside Riki, that protective shadow, made your stomach knot. The tension wasn’t just between the brothers—it radiated outward, threading through the air around everyone else, a subtle, undeniable warning.
Riki exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Okay…” He turned to the three of you with a look of frustration. “I’ll see y’all when you get back.”
You watched him hesitate for a moment, shoulders stiff, jaw tight, before he finally gave a small nod. “Be careful,” you muttered under your breath but loud enough for him to catch.
Reo’s eyes flicked toward you, the storm behind them softening just a fraction, like he recognized the weight of your gaze. No words, just a subtle tilt of his head—a silent acknowledgment. Then he turned, and with practiced precision, started walking down the street, Riki falling into step beside him like a shadow, smaller but unwilling to be left behind.
The van sat there idling, warm in the morning sun. You pressed your palms into each, trying to calm the sudden tightness in your chest. The air seemed heavier, charged, as if the space around them carried all the years of responsibility, anger, and unspoken plights between the brothers.
Shota leaned back against the seat, muttering, “Damn. That’s…intense.”
Leehan just shook his head, lips pressed together. “Yeah. That’s Reo for you. Always been that way.”
You stayed quiet, watching the figures recede, knowing that once they disappeared around the corner, the street would feel smaller—and emptier—but the echo of their presence would linger, a quiet warning you couldn’t ignore.
—
The drive south to LAX was relaxing, you on the aux as some music played comfortably. As Leehan pushed the van down the freeway, you hummed along to the music as you watched the world pass you by.
But of course, silence was always short-lived as it pertained to your friends. “So, I assume you and Riki are together again?”
You turned to him with a flabbergasted, yet offended expression. “I’m sorry?”
His eyes widened, tightening on the steering wheel. “I said, ‘I assume you and Riki are hanging out together again?”
“Oh…”
“...as in, you guys aren’t fighting anymore?” He leaned back as he signaled to move to another lane.
“Oh…yeah.” You nodded as your heart rate simmered a little. “Yeah, we squashed it.”
“So what happened?” He said absentmindedly as he turned the music down a little so he could hear you properly.
You gulp, keeping your eyes looking out of the window. “Nothing. We just agreed to…chill, you know. No beef.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Leehan laughed, “you were at his throat less than a day ago and now things are just squashed? What actually happened between you guys? Is what he said true or not?”
This was the thing you hated about lying: the guilt of it. But the fact that you had to think of a lie, say it convincingly, then remember it was entirely too stressful.
Riki didn’t even want to keep this up. He wanted to show you off, hold your hand walking down the street, kiss you whenever he felt like. Not in the dark or behind closed doors within the confines of your rooms or the city’s outskirts. But of course, he was a simple man—and entirely too easy. Whatever it took to be with you, he’d do it.
But your fear of commitment and judgment superseded anything that either of you could want.
“No, we didn’t sleep together.” You said with finality. “He just said that because some of the idiotic R12 members were talking about getting at me. So he—” You used air quotes, “‘put a claim on me’ so that they wouldn’t try anything.”
“So why didn’t he tell us that he did that?”
You somehow reached a flow state. “Because he knows how you two run your fat mouths. It’s just better if everyone thinks the same thing, I guess. That way he doesn’t have to remember who knows what.”
Leehan’s brow arched so high it was nearly touching his hairline. “Mhm. Right. Because he’s soooo organized like that.”
You shot him a glare sharp enough to slice bread. “Can you just drive?”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes still on you. “Nah, because something’s not adding up. Riki said one thing. Shota and I heard another. You acted one way. And now this?” He motioned in a circle at your whole existence. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar,” you snapped.
“So you admit that you’re lying?”
You groaned, sliding lower into your seat until you were practically melting into the upholstery. The anxiety sat in your chest like a cinder block. Keeping a secret relationship hidden from a man like Leehan—who was basically a human lie detector fused with a nosy aunt—felt like trying to hide a fireworks show behind a napkin.
And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong. Your lies were getting thinner, shakier, stitched together by panic. You felt the guilt creeping up your throat—warm, prickly, accusing.
Leehan glanced at you. His voice softened just enough to unsettle you. “Are you scared of him?”
You blinked. “What? Who?”
“Reo.”
You laughed, actually laughed at how off he was. “Please, that dickhead has nothing to do with this.” You folded your hands over your stomach as you crossed your legs in an effort to warm them from the blasting air conditioner. “He doesn’t scare shit over here.”
“So what are you hiding and why lie about it?”
“Oh my god,” you groaned. “Bitch you are so fucking nosey!”
Leehan grinned like a cat who’d finally cornered a mouse. “Yeah. And?”
“And mind your damn business!”
“It is my business,” he argued, turning onto the main road like he wasn’t detonating your blood pressure. “Because every time you lie, Riki acts weird, and when Riki acts weird, I get dragged into some emotional bullshit I didn’t ask for.”
You clutched your chest dramatically. “So now I’m inconveniencing you?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even hesitate. “My chakras are weighed down.”
You stared at him. “You don’t even know what chakras are.”
“I know yours are clogged with secrets.”
You slapped his arm—not hard, but enough to make him jerk the wheel a little. “Leehan!”
“Hey! Assaulting the driver is crazy.”
“Being the IRS of my personal life is crazy.”
He snorted, glancing over at you for half a second. “So you admit there’s something to tax?”
Your jaw dropped. “I didn’t say that!”
“You said it with your face.”
“Shut up.”
He hummed, smug, fingers tapping the wheel like he’d solved a crime. “One day, you’re gonna tell me.”
“One day,” you shot back, “I’m gonna push you out of a moving vehicle.”
“Good,” he said, nodding. “Maybe the fall will knock the truth loose.”
“I wish death on you. A slow, agonizing death. But until then,” you sighed. “Which terminal are we headed to?” You gestured ahead to the iconic big white letters that indicated your arrival.
“Terminal B…” Leehan sighed as he leaned forward, inspecting the bustling airport and the pedestrians making their ways through.
You reached behind you to grab Shota’s backpack, shuffling through it for his bag of sour gummy worms. The owner of said bag extended his hand for you to give him some, not even speaking because he had his own music playing.
You dropped a few gummy worms into Shota’s waiting palm, then tore one in half with your teeth like a feral squirrel. “Thank you for your service,” you mumbled around the candy.
Shota gave you a thumbs-up without looking up, completely zoned out to whatever playlist he lived on. You swore the guy could sleep through a tornado but wake up instantly if someone opened a bag of snacks within a five-mile radius.
Leehan eased the car into the arrival lane, glaring at the chaos like it personally offended him. “Why are airports always like fever dreams?” he muttered. “Every time I come here, I lose five years of my life.”
“Who are we scooping anyway?” You say through a mouthful of candy. “An uncle or some shit?”
“No, my cousin—well…she’s not blood but…” He shrugs as he grabs a gummy from the bag.
You snorted, “I got you, that’s just how people of color work, I guess. Everyone’s a cousin.”
He nodded, “yeah, but this is my first time meeting her. Her mom and my mom went to high school together way back when. Then they moved and shit, now her daughter is going to uni here in the States. Or…will be.”
You furrowed your brows inquisitively, “where are they from?”
“Honduras.”
Your brows lifted in surprise as a smile hit your face. “Oh snap, look at Mrs. Kim knowing people. Mrs. Worldwide.”
Leehan snorted, shaking his head. “Please don’t gas her up like that. She already thinks she’s Pitbull.”
You laughed, leaning back in your seat. “No, because I know she be telling people she’s multicultural just for the fun of it.”
“She does,” he said flatly. “She told her nail tech last week she ‘turns up’ when she listens to reggaetón. Like who says that anymore?”
You slapped his arm. “Shut UP.”
He groaned. “I was like, Mom…you don’t even know who Bad Bunny is.”
Shota, still munching gummies with one earbud in, glanced up. “She thought his name was Benny.”
You wheezed. “Isn’t his name Benito? She was close.”
“Not the point.” Shota smiled, taking another gummy worm. “I just don’t get how…”
Shota’s joke faded into the background, but you barely heard it. Something in your chest shifted—tightened—like a knot being pulled slowly, deliberately, until it demanded to be acknowledged. Everything seemed like white noise.
You watched the crowds outside the car, people dragging luggage, hugging relatives, starting trips, ending them. Moving. Living. And it hit you—hard—that Riki should’ve been here. Should’ve been laughing with you all. Complaining about the LA traffic. Stealing Shota’s gummies and flicking his ear just because he could.
He should’ve been in this moment.
But he wasn’t. Because he was stuck.
Your fingers curled around the bag of candy, knuckles whitening. The thought rose before you could stop it, blooming sharp and aching in your chest. You didn’t say anything at first—just let the idea sit there, heavy, terrifying, obvious.
You didn’t even realize you’d spoken until you heard your own voice.
“…I want him out.”
Leehan looked over. “Who?”
“Wait, I didn’t even do anything…” Shota said with a frown.
You kept your eyes straight ahead. If you looked at either of them, you’d talk yourself out of it. “Riki. I want him out of R12.”
Shota sat up, the surprise on his face softening into something more careful. No jokes this time. No easy shrug.
The words kept coming, quiet but sure, like you’d been holding them back for years.
“I keep thinking,” you said, voice low, “about all the things he’s missing. All the things he’ll keep missing because Reo won’t let him go.” You shook your head slightly. “I can’t stand the idea of him still being there while the rest of us get to…grow. Move forward. Be young. Be stupid. Be normal.”
Leehan’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t interrupt. Neither did Shota.
“He had the best grades out of all of us in school. Joined clubs, made friends, community service, everything. All down the drain because his selfish older brother couldn’t see past Freeridge. But it’s time for me to be selfish, guys, because I want more. For him.”
You swallowed hard. “And I don’t know…maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s impossible, but I just—” you exhaled shakily. “I keep thinking there has to be a way to get him out. Really out. A way to give him a chance at the life he keeps pretending he doesn’t want.”
Shota let out a slow breath through his nose, like he was trying to process ten different emotions at once. “You’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he murmured.
You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.
Because once the thought crawled into your chest, it refused to leave—this stubborn, aching truth that wouldn’t unclench its grip. Riki laughing on a couch that wasn’t surrounded by lookouts. Riki sleeping without one eye open. Riki showing up to dumb little hangouts like this one, rolling his eyes, complaining about the snacks. Riki choosing things instead of surviving them.
You blinked hard. “I hate that I’m starting to picture him as a memory while I’m still alive.”
Shota’s jaw flexed. Leehan’s stare stayed glued to the road, but his knuckles had gone white.
“He’s not gone,” Leehan said quietly.
“No,” you agreed, throat tight, “but you know how that life is. You either end up in prison, dead, or both. And I don’t even want to think about either.”
Shota shifted, like the words physically hit him. “Don’t say that,” he muttered, but it wasn't a reprimand—it was fear.
You stared down at your hands. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Neither of them did.
The signs passed, blocking the sun for a moment—casting a shadow across the windshield, washing the car in gold every few seconds. Each flash made the ache in your chest feel sharper, more real, like the world itself was trying to illuminate a truth you’d been avoiding.
“I keep replaying stupid things,” you said softly. “Like him talking about wanting to visit a college campus. Or saying he wanted to see snow for the first time. Or—” your breath trembled, “—how he used to say he wanted to get out of Freeridge before he turned twenty-one.” You swallowed again, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “He says it like a joke now. Like something he already accepted he’ll never have.”
Shota looked out his window, voice barely above a whisper. “He stopped talking about the future altogether.”
That got you. A quiet, painful exhale left your lungs. “Exactly,” you murmured. “It’s like he’s already grieving a life he hasn’t even lived.”
Leehan finally spoke, low and certain. “Then we don’t let that happen.”
You turned your head, heart thudding. He wasn’t saying it like a fantasy. He was saying it like a plan.
“We figure out a way,” he continued, eyes still on the road but voice steady, “to give him a real shot. A clean break. Something he can’t walk away from, even if he tries.”
✰ synopsis: four childhood best friends thought distance wouldn’t change them. but when you come back home to freeridge after your first year of college, a buried secret and gang politics collide—testing loyalty, love, and the block that raised them.
✰ run time: 17.1k words
✰ mpaa rating: TV-MA — fictional universe (on my block / freeridge, california.), coming of age kinda, found family, morally grey characters, swearing, “secret relationship”, implied sexual content, angst, fluff, banter, drug use and mention, underage drinking, distorted self-image, jealousy, situationship to lovers IM SORRY PLEASE, arguments, gun violence and gang shit, crying, summerween (as per gravity falls love that show), socioeconomic commentary, crude humor (some boundary pushing, but what is art without such), breaking the 4th wall a lil bit (it’s kinda fun i promise)
viewer's discretion advised.
✰ authors note!! (important): hey, welcome to the circle. this, alongside other fics in the future, will be apart of my “as seen on tv” series where i essentially make fics based on my favorite shows! i rmm doing this during my wattpad days but now it has gotten a name and a full blown makeover seeing as i am way more skilled than i was 5 years ago (or at least i’d like to think so).
these fics will literally be a mixture of me writing from memory of the show’s events, creating new scenes and dialogue (obvi, this won’t be a fic ON the show), creating whole new tales but just within the universe itself, etc. some may be oneshots, some may not be! i will make that judgment based on if i feel the fic calls for it or not. but the circle will have more than one. and there will be an upload schedule upon completion (i'm far along already dw), so make sure you turn that tv on.
this is a pilot!! more so, a temperature check to see how we're liking it thus far and if you want more.
you do not need to have watched the shows to understand fics. these can be read separately from the shows. though, it would be more fun!! i’d always recommend on my block as it is one of—if not—the greatest netflix series of all time. it’s all up to you.
soundtrack to enhance reading experience: spotify | apple
You’ve only been back in Freeridge, California for ten minutes and somehow your feet already know where to go.
You grew up on this block—this cracked sidewalk, that bent stop sign, the same sun-faded corner store where y’all used to beg for Slurpees after school. Childhood friends turned family: you, Shota, Leehan, and Riki. Neighbors since tricycles and scraped knees.
You walk up to Leehan’s house—still has the red folding chairs on the porch, the one with the wind chime—and see him and Shota inside through the window, arguing over something stupid like always.
At this point, you knew this house like you knew your own. If you were ever even really there anyway. You’ve spent summers, weekdays, weekends, school years—almost—in this home and it got to a point where you didn’t even have to knock. And if you did, then the door would always open for you because you had a key.
With a lively spirit, you barged inside—duffel bag in tow as you saw two out of your three best friends politicking on the couch. “Hey, assholes!”
Leehan paused in his movements, eyes widening just a bit before his jaw slacked. “You’re back…”
You dropped your duffel by the door with a now deflated look. “Did you expect me to stay in the woods for the whole summer?”
“Yes—I mean, no. No…we didn’t—no we didn’t. Right, Shota?” He turned to the younger, watching as he was on his phone—not even minding the interaction. “Dude!” Leehan snapped as he beamed a pillow at him.
With a thud, Shota’s phone hit the couch. “Yo—oh hey,” he looked at you with a smile. Standing up, opening his arms as he walked closer to you. “I missed you, Bun.”
“Yeah, at least someone did—ooh!” You grunted as Shota strong-armed you, wrapping his arms around you as he lifted you off your feet. “I missed you too, bro.”
He smiled at the words, “you smell like an airplane.”
Laughing, you wrapped your arms around him. Shota wasn’t always the brightest, but he was bright in every other way.
Shota, Leehan, and you all returned from your first years of college and though you didn’t get home right away—you were offered by your school’s writing club to go on a retreat with them after the semester finished. It was fun, enriching, and about five weeks. In a way, it was like summer camp for adults and it was nice to just unplug for a while after a hectic semester.
All three of you attended different schools. And while that was a hard summer’s end—you knew in some way it’d be good for you. The longest all four of you had been apart was a singular day since you were all seven years old. So eleven years later—after endless sleepovers, fights, makeups, robbing convenience stores blind, and late night phone calls—saying goodbye and seeing your cars go in different directions was the hardest thing you ever had to do.
“I missed you guys,” you said softly.
Leehan sighed, giving up his seeming distressed demeanor. “We missed you too,” he joined you and Shota as he wrapped his arms around you both. “How was everything?”
You were too enraptured in the comfort of being in the arms of your friends to realize that there was a third of your heart missing. “It was good…Learn-y, school-y.” Your feet still dangled in the air as you scanned the room; even eyeing the bathroom door for a moment hoping someone would come out. But knowing that it was early noon—Leehan’s little siblings were at day camp and his parents were working. None of them would be back until later in the day.
But even then, something felt hollow. Wrong. And you knew it when you only felt two pairs of arms around you. “Where’s Riki?”
Leehan’s arms stiffened first.
Not dramatically—just this tiny, telltale pause like his brain hit a speed bump. Shota let you down from his hug a little too fast, brushing his hands on his shorts like he suddenly needed something to do.
You frowned. “Hello? I said: where’s Riki?”
Leehan cleared his throat. “Uh…he’s, um…not here.”
“No shit. Where is he?”
Shota wouldn’t look at you. He kept glancing at Leehan like he wanted permission to talk.
“Guys.” You crossed your arms. “I’ve been home for ten minutes and you’re both acting like I asked you who killed Kennedy.”
Shota chimed in, “wasn’t it Harvey Lee Oswald?”
Leehan’s eyes didn’t leave you as he put his finger on Shota’s chest. “Lee Harvey Oswald and Riki’s…just not really around.” He shook his head as he walked to plop down on the couch.
You tilted your head in confusion. Eyes squinting as you had trouble connecting the dots. “What does that even mean? Did he move or some shit?” Crossing your arms as you approached him.
“We just—just drop it, man.” Leehan sighs. “Riki’s irrelevant.”
Your lips parted in surprise as you drew back. “Since—what? He’s been our best friend and neighbor since we were in the second grade and he’s suddenly old news?”
Shota interjected, “can you guys walk with me to the store? I want some chips.”
Without looking at him, you nodded to the door.
Shota tugged his hoodie on and headed out first, leaving you and Leehan in this thick, uncomfortable silence that felt wrong in a house you practically grew up in.
The walk to the corner store was familiar—same cracked pavement, same graffiti that had been there since middle school—but the energy between the three of you was off. Shota kept kicking a pebble like it personally offended him. Leehan jammed his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders tight.
Halfway down the block, you tried again.
“So we’re really not talking about it?”
Leehan exhaled hard through his nose. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
You snorted. “You’re lying. You’re bad at it. And you only get this weird when it has to do with some type of drama.”
Shota slowed his steps just enough for you to catch up. “Look…things got messy while you were gone.”
“What does that mean?”
Another shared look. You hated that look. It meant you’re not gonna like this.
Leehan ran a hand through his hair. “He wasn’t…he wasn’t really hanging with us much. We barely see him anymore.”
“So? We were away. He stayed back because of his stupid ass brother. We know that.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes.
Reo, Riki’s older brother, is heavily involved with a local gang—R12.
R for the family’s first initial. 12 for the street you lived on.
The kind everyone on the block pretends not to see but knows better than to cross. The name carries weight. Trouble, too.
When junior year rolled around, all four of you discussed college and looked forward to moving onto the next chapter of your lives. Shota, Leehan, Riki, and you all thought about attending the same school. Just fun, adulthood, parties, no rules.
But senior year happened and things got serious. Reo was all Riki had. Their mother passed years ago, father was hardly around and Reo had to sacrifice school to follow his birthright: the gang. The same gang everyone warned you about, the same one Riki swore he’d only ever be “adjacent” to.
It wasn’t a choice—more like gravity. Reo demanded more, and Riki got dragged with him. It started small. Doing quick runs, disappearing in the middle of sleepovers, seeing him with small bruises on his ribs.
While the three of you were filing your FAFSAs, Riki hadn’t even made his login yet. Because he foresaw it, he knew that it just wasn’t in the cards for him. Reo made sure of it.
“Man, fuck him. Who even cares…?” Shota rolled up his sleeves as he kept walking.
You shot him a look. “You care. Don’t start lying now. And don’t talk about him like that.”
He didn’t respond—just kept walking, steps quick, like he could outrun the conversation.
Leehan let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s more than just him going through that. There’s…other stuff.”
“No,” you snapped. “Explain it. Because right now you two sound like you’re mad at him for not juggling college applications while dodging gang members.”
Shota kicked at a crack in the sidewalk. “It’s not that.”
“So what is it?!” You snapped, throwing your hands up in anger. “Bro, I’m tired of the fucking riddles like come on! What the fuck happened between when y’all got back and now?” Like usual, your temper was starting to overcome you but you inhaled sharply before the heat ran down your neck and into your gut. “Why are you guys talking like he’s public enemy number one? You have five seconds before I find him myself.”
Leehan looked at Shota wearily, like he was asking for backup but knew he wasn’t getting any. Shota just shrugged, wide-eyed, like you handle it, bro, and suddenly the air felt thick enough to chew.
Leehan dragged a hand down his face. “Because he said some shit, okay?”
“That’s vague as hell.”
He tried again. “He told us something about you.”
You stared at him. “Like what? That I eat my toenails? That I punch idiots that take too long to get to the damn point? What?”
Shota winced like he knew a bomb was about to go off. “He told us that you two…hooked up before we left this year.”
Your mouth parted, breath catching. For a second, you didn’t even react—your brain was too busy finding scenarios in which it’d be solid to break into his house and strangle him while he was sleeping. Nah…the front door was too obvious. All of our houses only have one floor so maybe taking a crowbar to his window wouldn’t be such a bad start. Then the anger hit—fast, hot, bright.
It shot up your spine, tightened your jaw, curled your hands into fists before you even realized.
Leehan took one look at your face and actually stepped back. “Okay—alright—let’s not do the murdery face right now.”
“Murdery?” you scoffed. “Leehan, I’m being polite. You don’t wanna see murdery.”
Shota nodded too fast. “Yeah, she’s being polite, bro. Super polite.”
You didn’t even hear them. Your mind was still stuck on the image of Riki opening his stupid bedroom window at three in the morning to look at the street…only for you to be standing there with a crowbar like, hey bestie, remember me?
“Look,” Leehan put his hands on your shoulders as you heaved—a way of trying to push the anger below your feet. “We didn’t even believe him. We knew it was some bullshit and he didn’t tell anyone else. Just us and…just…” He pursed his lips. “Don’t worry, it’s contained.”
You shook your head as tears stung your eyes. Fists curled as you closed them and tapped your sneakers against the concrete. “I’m not gonna kill him.”
“Mhm, you’re not gonna kill him.” He encouraged.
“So you’re not gonna kill him?” Shota asked, a look of slight disbelief on his face.
“Not gonna.” You inhaled and exhaled smoothly as you opened your eyes. Letting the cool, Californian breeze run through your curly hair. “I’m going to chop his dick off with a cleaver and feed it to him.” You smiled as you backed up, booking it down the street.
Leehan didn’t even get to yell your name before you took off—full speed, booking it down the block with murder in your eyes.
“BRO—GO! GO!” Shota yelped, sprinting after you like his life depended on it.
Leehan was right behind him. “WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS! YOU CAN’T JUST—HEY!”
But you were already gone—cutting corners, hopping curbs, powered by pure betrayal and cardio-fueled vengeance.
By the time they caught up, you were stomping up Riki’s steps, fist balled, and Shota barely managed to grab your arm as you slammed your hand against the metal screen door.
“RIKI!” you barked, pounding again like the door owed you money. “OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”
The house door hummed a little as there seemed to be music playing from the inside. So loud that you don’t even think your banging made a difference.
“Dude, no—” Leehan walked forward, winded as he tried to reason with you. Shota grabbed him before he could advance further. “Just let her…”
Without another word, you forced the door open. The conversations inside cease abruptly. A huge group of guys, probably ranging from late teens to even late twenties, are scattered throughout the house as your view was clouded by thick, strong smelling smog. Through it, the opened door was able to let some of it out for you to see through. The living room was nearly trashed: beer bottles, ashes, wrappers all over the floor as your brows knitted tighter with every step you took inside.
The air was so dense you could taste it—like someone had hotboxed the entire zip code. The music thumped from somewhere deeper in the house, heavy bass rattling the picture frames and your last remaining nerve.
A couple dudes on the couch froze mid-laugh, eyes widening like they’d just seen a ghost with anger-management issues. One guy halfway through rolling a joint dropped the paper entirely. Another blinked at you through the haze, squinting like you were a hallucination he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Leehan and Shota hovered behind you in the doorway, both coughing like old men who’d wandered into the wrong nursing home.
“Goddamn,” Shota muttered. “Even my eyelashes are high.”
“Focus,” Leehan hissed.
You scanned the room—wrappers, beer bottles, someone’s shoe (just one), a chair flipped upside down like it hadn’t survived the last round of whatever chaos went down. And on the wall, barely visible through the smog, a neon light flickered BEER PONG CHAMPIONS, only barely hanging on.
Your voice came out low, deadly, and devastatingly clear:
“Where is Riki?”
The boys closest to you stiffened like you were pointing a gun, not a question. Their eyes darted toward the hallway as one of them lifted a shaky hand and pointed to the kitchen.
You didn’t even thank him.
You just stepped forward, shoulders squared, fury so sharp it cut through the haze better than the open door ever could.
Behind you, Leehan whispered, “Yeah, no, she’s gonna kill him.”
Shota sighed, resigned. “We can at least make sure it’s quick.” It was weird, kind of bizarre seeing you disappear into the smoke.
“Nuh-uh, I’m not going in there with those people.”
As you walked through and turned the corner to the kitchen, you saw him standing in a small crowd with a blunt hanging from his fingers. The moment his eyes found yours, they glazed over. You weren’t sure what exactly you saw in them. They were red, a little hazy and sleepy looking. But seeing you, blew it all.
“What the fuck is wrong with your brain?” You stomp over to him. “Huh?! I leave for writing camp and this is what I’m welcomed by?”
Riki blinks at you, clearly caught off guard by your sudden appearance. He quickly leaned off the surface as he put the blunt out on the counter—not caring if it left a mark. “Woah, hey—”
One of his other associates, a guy with some ridiculous fine line tattoos, cuts in. He eyes you up and down with a condescending smirk. “Who the hell is this chick?”
You turned to him. “This chick is Riki’s supposed childhood best friend. But I guess he wouldn’t know that.” Your attention goes back to Riki. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Disrespecting me like that to our friends?”
The guy stepped to you, his chest puffing up in anger. “Watch your mouth, little girl—”
“Alright,” Riki shook his head as he shifted his body to him. Shaking his head as his high was now fully blown. “You better watch your mouth,” his finger wagged slowly as it lightly rested on the elder’s chest. “Take that bass out of your voice, thank you.”
The tension in the room thickened, the music playing through the house seemed distant now as you watched Riki come to your defense. It wouldn’t be the first—a part of you hoped it wasn’t the last either. But the air seemed heavier than it did thirty seconds ago.
With a final sneer, the guy brushed Riki’s hand off. “Fine. But keep your friend under control, Riki. We don’t need any outsiders causing any problems.”
“I’m an outsider?!” You laugh humorlessly, “please ask—” you approached him angrily but before you could get closer, Riki grabbed you by the arm—his grip surprisingly strong. Pulling you aside in the kitchen “Yo, yo—calm the hell down.”
“Don’t tell me to—”
“Go outside.” He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t have to. It was the tone. Low. Firm. The same one he used back when you’d get worked up over group project partners who didn’t do their share. Except this time, the stakes were way higher than a C-minus.
You yanked your arm, ignoring how warm his hand had been. “I’m not going outside. I’m not done talking to you—”
“I am not having this conversation in front of them,” he hissed, eyes flicking toward the guys watching like it was premium cable. “Outside. Now.”
“Oh, so you can make decisions,” you snapped. “Interesting. Too bad you didn’t use that skill before opening your fat-ass mouth to Shota and Leehan.”
Riki’s jaw flexed. A muscle jumped. “Bro, you’re gonna get yourself jumped, and then I’m gonna have to deal with that and your yelling. Please. Outside.”
You scoffed, loud. “Cute of you to assume I wouldn’t beat their asses and yours.”
That earned you a few offended scoffs from the crowd.
Riki dragged a hand over his face, muttering something in Japanese you were ninety-eight percent sure meant “please, God, not right now.”
With a tight breath, he stepped closer—close enough that his voice dropped and you felt it more than heard it. “You’re in my brother’s house, surrounded by his people. You can’t just bark at everyone and hope it ends well.”
You glared up at him, heat radiating off your skin like you were a human wildfire. “Funny. Because you didn’t seem to care about the consequences when you told the guys we hooked up.”
His eyes widened—there it was. Guilt. Flashing across his face like lightning. “Out. Side.” He grit out. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
You stared him down, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like you were about to lunge first and think later. But the way he said it—low, edged, almost shaking—
Yeah. You knew that tone too.
So you spun on your heel and shoved past him, letting the front door slam behind you as you stepped into the warm air.
Riki followed seconds later, shutting the door softly this time. The music dulled to a muffled thump, the smoke-heavy air swapping out for something crisp, clearer…but still thick between you two.
He stayed a few steps away, hands planted on his hips as he stared at the concrete like it offended him. His voice was low, steadying. “What the fuck is wrong with your crazy ass?!”
“I’m not crazy! I’m angry! How could sit up with our friends and just—”
“What?! Do what?”
You shoved him hard but he barely stumbled. “Fucking dick! Forget that I ever knew you. I never wanna see or hear from you again! Just…” You hold up your hand in repugnance. “Ugh!” Turning to cross the street to go directly to your house, Riki catches your arm before you can make another step. “Stop, bitch—what part of ‘I fucking hate you’ do you not get?”
“Just let me explain! Look, before you at least try to walk out of my damn life—let me tell you—”
You nudged him. “Fuck off,” walking straight ahead and across the street to your house. Disappearing from the scene without another word. Riki groaned in annoyance, massaging his temples as he stood there. Torn between following you or respecting your desire for space.
But after a moment, he lifts the bottom of his black tank top, sighing into it before he’s approached by Shota and Leehan—both boys coming out of the bushes.
Shota emerged first, twigs in his hair, looking like he’d just barely survived a nature documentary. “…She’s alive, right?” he asked, glancing between the street you stormed across and Riki’s murder-face.
Leehan stepped out after him, brushing leaves off his shirt. “We weren’t hiding—we were…tactically monitoring.”
Riki shot them both a look. “You were crouched behind a bush.”
Shota whispered, “Tactical,” under his breath.
Leehan ignored him, eyes locked on Riki. “So? Did you fix it?”
Riki barked a humorless laugh. “Does it look fixed?”
Both boys assessed him. Shota: “…You look like you got hit by a car.” Leehan: “Twice.”
Riki dragged a hand over his face again, jaw tight, chest still rising a little too fast. “She won’t even let me talk. I tried to explain, and she—” he gestured vaguely toward your house—“walked off like I’m nothing to her.”
“That’s because you messed up,” Leehan said bluntly. “Like really messed up. Like…badly.”
Shota hummed. “Honestly, I thought she was gonna deck you. And I was kinda ready to join in.”
Riki kicked a pebble, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Please, I’ve been kicking your ass since the sandbox.”
Shota bristled instantly. “Bro, that was ONE time—”
“It was every time,” Riki shot back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You used to fall over if someone breathed too hard.”
Leehan waved a hand. “Yo, can we circle back to the part where you detonated your entire friendship in under thirty seconds?”
Riki’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The high was gone. The adrenaline was gone. All that was left was that tight ache in his chest, like someone was pulling each rib inward. “I didn’t mean for her to find out like that,” he muttered.
Leehan deadpanned, “you told us.”
“Yeah, because you’re my boys,” Riki snapped, pacing a short line on the sidewalk. “I didn’t think it’d turn into some weird telephone game while she was gone!”
“But you lied on your dick though. What type of cornball does that?” Shota shrugged obviously.
“I didn’t—” He inhaled, his fists curling up as he punched his palm—leaving it stinging.
Leehan sighed. “So you’re saying y’all fucked. She clearly holds the sentiment that you didn’t so…who’s lying?” He opened his hands, prepared to receive any type of clarity on the situation.
“It’s not even about who’s lying, how do I make her not angry enough to not want to punch me in the face?” He gestured to your house. “Bro, her temper is insane! She’s like a fucking chihuahua—”
Shota clapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes going wide. “Ooh, I’m telling on you.”
Leehan nodded gravely. “Yeah, we’re really gonna jump your ass then.”
Riki groaned, dragging both hands over his face. “I didn’t mean—I’m just saying she bites first and thinks later! She’s like—like—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Shota warned. “For your own safety.”
Riki let his hands drop, exasperated. “I’m being serious. She’s not gonna listen to me. She won’t even stand still long enough for me to get a sentence out. I—” He huffed. “I panicked, okay? I shouldn’t have said we—”
“Hooked up?” Leehan offered.
Riki shot him a dirty look. “Shut up. I know it was stupid.”
Shota crossed his arms. “Bro, she finished the year. She spends an extra few weeks on an isolated writing retreat. Missing time with us for whatever reason. She came home ready to hug you. And instead she got you with a blunt, a house full of gang extras, and a rumor that you two were bumping uglies behind her back. Of course she’s mad.”
Riki winced. “…Yeah.”
Leehan’s voice firm. “So start with the truth.”
Riki blinked at him like that was the most unreasonable suggestion ever. “What truth?”
“The real one,” Leehan said. “You said something happened. She said nothing happened. So which one is it? What are we actually dealing with here?”
Riki’s eyes flicked toward your house again—like the answer was written behind your window.
Shota said absentmindedly, lips pursed as he looked down at the dirt beneath his shoes. “She didn’t say nothing happened.”
“What?” Leehan furrowed his brows.
“She just got mad. She never said what did or didn’t happen.”
Riki walked backwards to his house, arms spread in vindication. “Hm. And you fuckers didn’t believe me.”
Leehan rolled his eyes so hard it was audible. “Relax, Socrates. All she confirmed is that she hates your guts.”
Shota pointed at Riki with a half-shrug. “Yeah, bro, don’t act like this is some big ‘gotcha.’ She didn’t say you were lying…but she also looked ready to kick your shit in.”
Riki dropped his arms, irritation sliding back in. “Still. None of you believed me.”
“Because your track record is dogshit,” Leehan said. “You lie about stupid shit all the time. One time you said you could backflip off Shota’s porch and you landed on his mom’s hibiscus.”
“Hey, that flowerbed recovered,” Riki muttered.
“No, it didn’t,” Shota said. “She still brings it up at family dinners.”
Riki threw his head back with a groan. “Bro, can we stay on topic?”
Leehan crossed his arms. “Cool. That means we’re back to the original question: what actually went down?”
Riki’s jaw ticked. He turned slightly, like the angle would help him dodge the question.
Shota wasn’t letting him. “Bro. We’ve known you since you had Lego hair. Just spit it out.”
A long beat.
Riki’s tongue pressed against his cheek, eyes dropping to the sidewalk. “I’ll catch y’all later.” He turned around fully to walk back up his steps.
“Wh—hey!” Shota calls out.
Shota jogged after him, grabbing the back of his tank like a mom snagging a toddler about to run into traffic. “You are not gonna hit us with the dramatic exit when you’re the one who started this whole novella.”
Riki yanked his shirt free with a scoff. “I didn’t start anything—”
“You literally did,” Leehan yelled from the sidewalk. “You started it with your mouth. And continued it with your mouth. And escalated it with your…actually? Still your mouth.”
Riki spun around, eyes wide, offended. “Can the both of you get off my jock? Damn!”
Shota pointed at him, calm and judgmental like an annoyed substitute teacher. “No. Because you’re being a loser. And I say that with love.”
Riki lifted both hands to his face, dragging them down like he could physically wipe the embarrassment off. “Y’all are the worst friends alive.”
“And yet,” Leehan said, stepping closer, “we’re the only ones who can save your dumbass from getting rocked by your girl.”
“She’s not my girl!” Riki snapped instantly, which absolutely no one believed.
Both boys blinked at him like he’d just said the sky was green.
Shota said. “And I’m Scooby Doo.”
Leehan pointed at the door behind Riki. “Stop stalling. We asked what happened. You clearly don’t want to say it. Why?”
Riki’s throat bobbed.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Shifted his weight.
Looked everywhere except at them.
Then booked it right into the house. Locking the door behind him with a click.
Shota and Leehan just stared at the locked door like it had personally offended them.
A beat.
Then another.
“…Did he just—?” Shota blinked.
“Yeah,” Leehan said flatly. “He ran.”
—
The rest of the night was a weird one. It felt like your college nights. Locked away in your space, biding the time until you were finally set free from the deadlines and expectations and able to leave. To be with your family but your friends most importantly.
All three of those boys meant something differently to you; and it almost made you worry about how your life would’ve transpired if you hadn’t been put next to them for talking too much.
Leehan was the diplomat. The water to everyone’s fire as the eldest one of the quartet. The one that spoke when you four were sent to the principal’s office for setting off a stinkbomb in Mrs. Jenson’s art class.
Shota was always in his own world. But he meant it for all of you. He was nearly impossible to hate to the point where if you were too mean to him, you’d start crying. Not only was he unreasonably peculiar at all times, he was the friend that you’d call in the middle of the night just to talk and he’d answer like he wasn’t mid rapid eye movement.
Riki was always very tricky. The rhyme was not intended, I promise. He was the wild card. The spark. The kid who lived like he had a personal vendetta against boredom. He’d drag you into trouble with a grin, swear you were overreacting, and then somehow sweet-talk the consequences down to a warning. He could charm adults, piss off authority, and get the three of you laughing in the same breath.
But he was also the one who always noticed.
When you were too quiet. When your knee bounced under the desk. When you smiled but didn’t mean it.
He’d nudge your foot with his sneaker. Or toss you a note. Or mouth a stupid joke until you cracked.
Riki was complicated. Not in the dramatic way—more in the “why does your chest feel weird when he looks at you too long” way.
Tonight he had you feeling everything except calm. You lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling like it contained answers or at least a refund policy for emotional tax. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that made your thoughts echo.
Shota, Leehan, Riki. Your boys. Your constants. Your headaches.
You exhaled slowly, sinking deeper into your mattress. You’d kill them before you ever lost them. Probably.
Just then, you nearly jumped out of your skin as you heard a sharp knock on your window. Turning your head to the right, you almost fell off your bed as Riki stood there—tall and looming over your window in a black hoodie.
He lifted a hand and knocked again—lighter this time, like that made it any less insane.
You hissed under your breath, scrambling off the bed and practically tripping over your blanket as you marched to the window. Sliding it up, you whispered harshly, “Are you out of your mind?!”
Riki blinked at you, equal parts guilty and stubborn. “You weren’t answering your phone.”
“So your next idea was breaking into my house?”
“It’s not breaking in if the window’s unlocked,” he shrugged, already hooking his fingers over the sill like he was about to climb in whether you liked it or not.
You smacked his hand. “Try it and I’m calling the cops.”
“You won’t.”
“I absolutely will.”
“You won’t,” he repeated, annoyingly sure.
He leaned closer, breath puffing in the cool night air. “Can you just—” His jaw clenched. “Let me talk to you.”
You crossed your arms. “Talk from out there.”
Riki shot you a look like you were being intentionally difficult. (You were.) “It’s cold.”
“It’s a Californian summer night, it’s sweater weather at best.” You shrug haphazardly.
“I’m anemic.”
“No. I’m anemic.”
“Same difference.”
“Go.” You lightly pushed him back and out of the windowsill. “Don’t you have gang members to go rob a bank with, hard-ass?”
Riki’s face twisted like you’d just accused him of running a puppy-smuggling ring. “Rob a—what?!” he whisper-yelled, gripping the window frame before you could shut it. “You think I’d rob a bank with them? Half those dudes can’t even do basic math!”
“Sounds like a personal problem,” you said, trying to pry his fingers off the sill.
He held on tighter.
You glared. He glared back, a standoff worthy of a Western, except you were in pajamas and he looked like a raccoon rifling through trash.
“Why are you still here?” you hissed.
“Because,” he snapped back in a whisper, “my name is getting dragged through the mud, my best friend hates me, my other two best friends think I’m an idiot—”
“They’re right.”
“—and you still won’t let me explain!”
You gripped the window and started lowering it—slowly, deliberately—like a villain pressing a big red button.
Riki’s eyes went huge. “Don’t you—don’t you dare close this window on me.”
You kept lowering it.
“Bro—” Down another inch.
“Are you serious right now—” Another inch.
He shoved his hand under the frame, blocking it like some tragic action hero trying to stop a garage door from crushing him. “I’m not finished!”
“You said plenty,” you replied, voice flat as drywall. “So we’re even.”
“I didn’t get to say anything!” he whisper-yelled, face squished awkwardly under the descending window. “Okay—I said a little. But not in the way you think—ow, that’s my knuckle—can you just—STOP—”
You paused just long enough for him to yank his hand out before he lost a finger.
He immediately slapped both palms on the windowsill, breathless, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “What is wrong with you?!”
“You came to my window at—” you checked the analog clock on the wall, “—one forty-six in the morning looking like you crawled out of a crime documentary and I’m the problem?”
He pointed at you, indignant. “Yes!”
You pushed the window down another inch. Closing it.
He groaned, “oh come on you can’t—” He watched you lower the blinds, your narrowed eyes the last thing he saw before you closed the curtains. “Please?” Riki sighed, leaning against the window as he called out. “Come on, open up for me? Please—”
The TV you had on only increased in volume.
Riki’s head thunked against the glass like he was trying to transfer his brain cells through osmosis. “Are you—are you SERIOUS right now? You’re gonna drown me out with The OC?!”
You didn’t answer.
Cue the theme music swelling louder.
“Boo.” Knock, knock, knock. “Bunnyboo, I know you hear me.”
Silence.
Another knock, faster. “Bro, don’t do me like this. At least yell at me through the glass. Throw something. Flip me off. Give me anything!”
You turned the TV up another two notches.
He pressed his forehead to the window again, palms flat, voice dropping low—half pleading, half warning. “Don’t make me climb in here. I swear to God, I will break in like a raccoon with a vendetta—”
A pillow smacked the glass from inside—the clanging of the blinds as it hit the hard surface.
He flinched. “…Okay. Message received.”
But he didn’t leave.
He stayed right there—pacing once, twice—before finally planting himself on the little strip of concrete beneath your window, sitting down like he paid rent there. Legs stretched out, hoodie bunched at his elbows, head tipped back against your siding. “Come on…” He whispered to himself.
He rubbed both hands over his face, dragging down like he could physically peel the stress off. “I’m gonna die out here,” he muttered. “She’s actually gonna let me freeze to death on suburban concrete. Damn.”
You muted the TV for two seconds—just long enough for him to perk up—before turning it right back on. He deflated so hard you could practically hear it.
“Wow,” he said to the night sky. “She’s evil. She’s actually evil. And she wonders why I lie awake at night thinking about—”
You whacked the window again with another pillow.
He jumped. “HEY—okay, okay! I take it back! You’re not evil, you’re just—” He paused, searching for something nice. “—temperamental.”
Another pillow hit the glass.
He held both hands up like he was being detained. “How many pillows do you have?!”
For a moment, he just sat there, breathing out shaky frustration, knees bent, arms draped loosely over them. The porch light cast him in soft gold, and for once he didn’t look like the loudmouthed, idiotic menace who’d started this whole mess.
He looked like someone who’d been losing his mind over you all night. And then—quietly, almost too quiet: “…Boo. Please let me fix this.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tapping anxiously.
“I didn’t tell them what you think I did,” he said, softer. “I swear. I didn’t make you look stupid. I didn’t—” His voice caught. “I didn’t disrespect you. Not the way you’re imagining.”
You froze behind the blinds.
He exhaled like the words tasted bitter. “I didn’t even tell them everything. Not the stuff that…mattered.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the roots.
“You think I’m out here playing around,” he said. “But I’m not. And I don’t know how to prove that when you won’t open the damn window.”
You didn’t move. He didn’t expect you to.
He tilted his head back against the siding again, eyes closing, breath leaving him in a quiet, frustrated laugh. “Fine,” he murmured. “I’ll sit out here all night if I have to.”
A pause.
“Knowing my dumbass? I probably will.”
Then, he heard movement from inside the house. Leaning into the siding did he lean up as his heart rate jumped. He stood up, brushing his sweats off as he walked around the front of the house. Only for him to be met with your mom—robe, bonnet, and sleepy-face in tow.
Riki froze mid-step, eyes widening like he’d just walked into a horror scene. “Uh…hi?” His voice cracked somewhere between sheepish and terrified.
Your mom blinked at him, hands on her hips, taking in the hoodie, the sweatpants, the midnight energy radiating off him like a storm cloud. “Riki Nishimura,” she said slowly, voice low but deadly calm. “What exactly are you doing on my lawn at—” she glanced at her phone—“almost two in the morning?”
“I—uh—” He raised his hands like a surrendering cartoon character. “I had to go to the store for Reo. I forgot my keys and now I’m locked out…” This wouldn’t be the first time he’s lied to your mom, it was just about whether she’d believe him. “I called him a few times and he’s not answering so…”
“So…you couldn’t go to either of the other boy’s houses? You had to come to my daughter’s?”
Riki’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He looked like a fish trying to talk its way out of being dinner. “Well—okay—hear me out,” he blurted, already panicking. “I would sleep at Shota’s but he snores insanely loud and the last time I did, he almost suffocated from the pillow I put over his face. And Leehan is entirely too particular about how I sleep like he wants the bed split right in—”
Your mom gave him a look so dry it could’ve dehydrated a cactus. “Inside. Now. Before I start asking real questions.”
Riki nodded so fast his hood nearly flew off. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”
But as he followed her toward the door, he couldn’t stop the tiny, hopeful glance he threw toward your window—praying you hadn’t heard any of that, even though he knew deep down…you definitely had.
He kicked his shoes off as he entered, “I promise I’ll be out—” he whispered.
“Shut up, you’re not a guest here. I love you, goodnight.” She yawned as she walked the opposite way to her room.
“Love you too, sleep well.” He whispered back.
Riki stood in the hallway like someone who’d just been adopted and arrested in the same breath. He watched your mom disappear down the hall, the soft shuffle of her slippers fading.
He took two small steps forward. Then froze when the floorboard under him squeaked loud enough to wake the dead. He saw your shadow moving around in your room from the small sliver of light that poked through the gap of the frame and door itself. His gut told him to speed up down the hall. To which he did—swiftly—before you could close the door on him.
But he beat you there, wedging himself in. “Gotcha.” He beamed, shimmying through as he closed it softly behind him.
“Are you crazy?” You whisper-yelled. “Coming into my house like this? Lying to my mom?!”
“I’m just as crazy as you are.” He unzipped his hoodie, tossing it onto the rack on your closet door. “Don’t act like you haven’t lied to Reo however many times—”
“That’s different. If we’re gonna be out late or something but—”
“Look, I don’t care about any of that. I came to fix things with you.” He stepped forward, ensuring you looked up at him. “Just hear me out…two minutes.” You studied him—hair messy from the wind, shirt rumpled, socks mismatched, eyes big and tired and a little frantic. You hated how familiar he looked in your room. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d slipped in after midnight.
“You get one.” You nod once. “And take off those dirty ass pants.” You sighed as you turned to your drawers. Scouring until you landed on a clean pair of black sweats.
With some rustling behind you, Riki stripped out of his pants. Revealing his black Calvin Klein boxers that you loved so much. That he knew you went crazy for.
“…Did you seriously just—?”
“What?” he said, way too innocent for someone in nothing but briefs in your bedroom at two in the morning. “You told me to take ‘em off.”
“I meant go change in the bathroom, you psychopath.”
He blinked. “Why would I walk all the way to the bathroom when your room is right here?”
You stared at him.
He stared back like this was the most logical sentence any human had ever spoken.
“Riki,” you said slowly, pointing the sweats at him like a weapon. “Put these on before I throw holy water at you.”
He snatched the pair from your hand with a tiny smirk—one he tried (and failed) to hide by looking down. “You always give me the soft ones,” he murmured, pulling them on.
“Well they’re yours…” you sigh, plopping right onto the edge of your bed.
He froze mid–pull, waistband halfway up his hips. “…What?”
You blinked at him. “What, what?”
He let the rest of the sweats snap into place, slow, like his brain was rebooting. “Did you just say they’re mine?”
You groaned, falling back on your palms. “Yes, Riki, congratulations, you own a pair of cotton-poly blend sweatpants. Don’t let it go to your head. So what? You’ve been here like a trillion times.”
But of course it did. You watched the shift happen in real time—his shoulders relaxing, his mouth tugging into that stupid boyish half‑smile he only ever got when he felt special.
He toed his discarded pants into a pile and padded over to you, the soft thud of his mismatched socks making him look criminally at-home in your space. “They’re mine,” he repeated, quieter this time. Like he’d just been handed a family heirloom instead of laundry.
You rolled your eyes. “Riki, don’t get sentimental, it’s literally the third time you’ve forgotten to take them back.”
He dropped down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “Still counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does,” he said, leaning back on his hands so his arm pressed along yours. “‘Cause that means when I come over…you expect me to stay.”
Your breath stuttered—just barely, but enough.
His voice softened. “And I know you’re pissed. And I know you’re pretending you’re not glad I’m here.” A beat. “But you said they’re mine.”
He nudged your knee with his. “Let me explain, Boo. Please.”
Your knee bounced, nerves bubbling up in the pit of your stomach as you looked down at your hands in your lap. “You promised, Riki. That you wouldn’t tell anyone what happened that night.”
Riki’s breath caught—not loud, not dramatic, just this tiny break in his chest like your words had clipped something vital. He didn’t move at first. Just stared at you, jaw set, eyes searching your profile like the truth might be written somewhere on your cheek. “I…I didn’t tell them in a malicious way.”
You turned your head as your anger bubbled up in your stomach. But he knew how to placate you. “No, no, no…listen. Look at me.” He gently grabbed your shoulders to turn you to face him. “Damn, you’re like a pitbull.”
You slapped his hands off your shoulders instantly. “Don’t call me a pitbull.”
“You are a pitbull,” he shot back, whisper‑yelling. “Small. Angry. Bites without warning.”
“I’m literally taller than you,” you snapped.
“You are not taller than—okay, you know what, that’s not the point.” He dragged a hand down his face, regrouping, then looked at you with that maddening mix of exasperation and adoration that made you want to smack him and kiss him in the same breath. “Listen to what I’m saying.”
You crossed your arms so hard your shoulders creaked.
He leaned forward, matching your intensity with his own. “I was just doing it for your protection.” He watched your face blend into confusion. “Not from the guys, from the guys my brother deals with.”
“Um…?”
“While you were gone, some of them were saying that they were gonna get at you when you came back. Obviously by that point, me and you already…” He trailed off. “And it was under wraps. But the way they were talking,” he shook his head, his tongue poking his cheek as he recalled the repulsive language. “I had to ‘claim’ you. Let them know you were mine.”
“I’m not an object, Riki.”
“I know, Boo. I know. I didn’t wanna put you in that position but I had to for the sake of those guys leaving you alone when you got back.”
Your brows pulled together, the heat in your chest shifting—still anger, but now tangled with something colder, sharper. “That’s not protection,” you said quietly.
Riki winced like you’d flicked him right in the soul. “I know. I know that. And if there was any other way—literally any—I would’ve taken it.”
You stared at him, trying to read past the excuses, past the dramatics, past the Riki-isms he wrapped himself in like bubble wrap. But his eyes weren’t dodging. Nor were they defensive. Just tired. And tense. And…a little fearful.
Your voice softened a notch. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
He huffed out a laugh—dry, humorless, one shoulder lifting. “Because you’d say exactly what you’re saying now. That I don’t get to ‘claim’ you. That you’re not a trophy. That you don’t need saving.” He added, “plus by that time you were at your retreat, didn’t have your phone. Was I supposed to send a smoke signal? Letter in a bottle?”
“It would’ve been appreciated.” You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I can’t stand you sometimes.”
Riki groaned, “dude, you’re so immature.”
“Me?!” You gasped, “I’m immature yet you fold under zero pressure and stutter when you lie?”
“Don’t do that. We’re grown now, I shouldn’t even be lying to anybody.”
“Right. So telling your groupies about our night of passion was sooo grown?”
He smiled, boyishly. “So you thought there was passion?” Slowing reaching his hand over to your waist before you smacked it away.
“No! I’m just saying that you’re a dick and never consider me for anything. Not me, Leehan, or Shota.”
Riki looked at you like you had three heads. “Are you—what are you talking about?”
You scoffed, “how did they even find out? Leehan told me that only he and Shota knew. Now you’re saying that—”
“I told them after the fact so they wouldn’t have to hear it from anybody else!” He stood up, “gosh, how low do you think I am? Like, do you really think I’m just some loser?”
Your head snapped up at his tone. He wasn’t yelling, but the hurt in his voice sliced sharp enough.
“Riki, that’s not—”
“No, because you’re talking like I’m out here giving press conferences about our business.” He pointed at himself, brows furrowed, genuinely offended. “You think I’d embarrass you like that? You think I’d embarrass myself like that?”
You opened your mouth, shut it, then crossed your arms tighter. “I think you do dumb things without thinking.”
His laugh was one sharp exhale. “Yeah? So do you.”
“That is not the point—”
“It is,” he cut in, stepping closer, eyes locked on yours with that frustrating intensity that made your stomach flip. “Because you’re acting like I’m some clown who doesn’t care about you. Like I’d run around bragging about us to look cool. That’s not me. That’s never been me.”
You faltered. Just a hiccup. Barely noticeable—except he noticed everything. “So telling people about us having sex on a summer night—”
“God, what do you not get?!” He put his hands out in frustration, “I didn’t tell anyone for fun! Or to lie on my dick—not that it was even a lie. I did it because otherwise, you’d have some weird ass guys pushing up on you and I can’t have that. For my sanity or your safety.”
You sighed dramatically, crossing your arms as you looked away from him. Turning your head away like you were a child.
“Look at me.” Riki said firmly but to no avail.
“Hm.” You shrugged as you crossed your legs. Your bare legs rubbing together over your checkered pajama shorts.
He shook his head. “Dude, you need to grow the fuck up and stop acting like a petulant child.”
You snapped your head back toward him so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. “Petulant?” you echoed, voice shooting up an octave. “Oh, wow. Big word. Did you eat a dictionary for breakfast or—”
“See?” he barked, throwing his hands up. “That! That right there!”
“What right there?!”
“You act like you don’t care but then you get mad like you care the most.” He pointed at you like you were a math problem he’d been failing for years. “You can’t even look at me without doing the dramatic little eye-roll-head-turn combo—”
“I do not—”
“You do,” he cut in, stepping forward, voice firm, eyes sharp. “You’re doing it right now.”
Your jaw dropped. “I am not—”
“You are,” he repeated, exasperated beyond mortal comprehension. “And it’s fine—like, it’s actually kinda cute when you’re not actively trying to ruin my life—but right now? Right now I need you to stop pretending you’re five years old and actually hear me.”
You scoffed so loud the walls probably shook. “Five years old? Riki, I swear to God—”
“No, seriously.” He crouched down a bit so he was more level with you, eyes narrowing just enough to make your pulse jump. “Grow. Up.”
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened.
You were halfway to telling him off when he added, annoyingly soft:
“I’m trying to talk to you. Not fight. Not yell. Talk. But you’re making it impossible.”
You blinked at him, chest tight, fury and embarrassment and something dangerously close to vulnerability twisting together.
His voice dropped low. “Stop looking away from me. I hate when you do that.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He leaned in, jaw tight. “And it makes me feel like you don’t care.”
That sentence froze you mid-breath. “…What?” you whispered.
Your heartbeat kicked up so loudly you were sure he could hear it. You sat there, arms crossed, shoulders tense, but eyes finally—finally—on him.
Riki looked back at you with an honesty that stripped every smart remark right off your tongue.
“Stop acting like I’m some villain,” he murmured. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.” He reached up, brushing a curl that fell out of your ponytail—behind your ear. “And with that funky ass temper, I can’t get a word in.”
You stare at him for a moment, tilting your chin to the side his hand was on as your eyes flit to the side. Like you were almost embarrassed to enjoy physical touch from him. “Riki.”
“Yes?”
“How long have you known me for? Do you remember?”
His hand froze halfway down your cheek like you’d just hit him with a pop quiz he absolutely did not study for.
“…Huh?” he blinked.
You sighed, leveling him with a stare that could’ve melted steel. “How long have you known me? Since when?”
Riki straightened, shoulders pulling back as if bracing for impact. “Since we were seven.”
“And in all those years,” you continued, voice low, “has there ever been a moment where my mouth hasn’t gotten me or one of us into some type of trouble?”
He pursed his lips in thought, his eyes seeming to search through the crevices of his brain. “Um…no not really.” Riki looked back from ages seven to twenty—trying to assess when your sharp tongue and impulsive actions hadn’t done them well.
“See?” You smiled in jest. “And you guys just accept me for me. This is who I am. And the fact that you hate it now all of a sudden—”
Riki rolls his eyes, frustration flaring in his chest. “No one’s saying we don’t accept you,” he retorts, his tone firm. “But just because we’ve put up with your bullshit for years doesn’t mean you can’t be held accountable for your words and actions. This isn’t some free pass to act like a brat whenever you want.”
“Yes it is!” You laugh, “because I accept you for all your shit. You’re like a diet version of me.”
Riki’s whole face twisted, “please. You’re the most mini-me of anyone I know.”
“Are you trying to son me?”
Riki laughed, leaning into you as he laid his head on your shoulder. “You are my son, you wanna be like me soooo bad.”
You shoved his forehead lightly. “Shut up.”
He blinked at you, affronted. “Don’t hit your daddy.”
You smacked him again.
“HEY—”
“Keep talking like that,” you warned, “and I’m putting you in the home early.”
He leaned back, pointing at you like you were the crazy one. “You can’t put me in the home. You’re my dependent.”
“Riki, I am older than you.”
“That’s what makes this so embarrassing for you,” he said, absolutely delighted with himself. “Imagine being older and still being my mini-me.”
Your eye twitched so violently he had to bite back a laugh.
Then he softened, just a little—head tilting, voice dropping. “Come on, Boo. I’m messing with you.” His shoulder nudged yours. “You know I don’t think of you like that.” Leaning his head back on your shoulder as he reached down for your hand. “I’m sorry, again.”
You tried—tried—to keep your spine stiff, arms crossed, jaw tight. But the second his fingers brushed yours, your whole posture betrayed you. Your hand didn’t curl around his, but it didn’t pull away either. It just…sat there. Suspiciously compliant.
You exhaled, staring at the wall like it might give you divine guidance.
“I know.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I messed up. I scared you. I made you feel played. I talked too much, I didn’t talk enough—I know.” He lifted his head just enough to look at you. “But I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear to God, Boo, every dumb thing I did was me trying to keep you safe.”
Your throat tightened despite every effort to swallow the feeling down.
“And I know you don’t like being protected,” he added, voice threading into something shy. “But you matter to me. In a way that makes it hard to think straight sometimes.”
Ever since you could remember meeting him, Riki had been your protector. And the worst part? He’d never even asked for the job.
He just…took it.
The kid who yanked you out of trouble before you even recognized it. The teenager who stood in front of you during every argument you started. The grown man now sitting in your bedroom at two in the damn morning, wearing your/his pants and looking at you like you were the whole reason he learned how to fight in the first place.
His knuckles grazed your jaw as he leaned in, nudging your cheek with his nose the way he always did when he was trying to make you smile. It worked—of course it did—your laugh spilling out small and helpless. “Your hero, your knight…” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. The smile that followed wasn’t cocky or teasing, but something almost…bashful. Like he couldn’t believe he’d earned the right to say it out loud. “Remember?”
But the word hero didn’t even begin to cover it.
He’d been a shadow and a shield, a tether and a torch—always one step ahead of whatever chaos you were about to fling yourself into. He carried your messes like they weighed nothing, shouldered your storms like they were summer rain. Half the time you wondered if he’d been assigned to you at birth, like some overworked guardian angel who accidentally got attached.
And you did remember. Every version of him. Every moment he’d stepped between you and the world like it was instinct. Like saving you was simply something he knew how to do—before he even knew how to save himself.
“Mhm,” you nodded—barely, quietly, like admitting it too loudly might crack something wide open between you.
His eyes softened even more at that tiny sound, as if your agreement carried an entire lifetime of shared secrets. His fingers slipped from your jaw to the side of your neck, feather-light, tracing the spot he always touched when he was trying to ground you…or ground himself. You could feel the tremor hiding in his thumb. He was steady for everyone else—impenetrable, unshakable—but with you? His armor always rattled just a little.
“Good,” he whispered, almost like he needed reassurance. Like he was afraid you might’ve forgotten who he’d always tried to be for you.
You hadn’t. God, you hadn’t.
If anything, the memories rose up all at once—him grabbing your sleeve before you stepped into the street at eight years old, him taking the blame for something you’d said at twelve, him pulling you behind him during the campfire argument at fifteen, eyes dark and jaw set like he’d burn the whole forest down before he let someone talk to you sideways. Him now, sitting inches from you, still trying to guard you from something invisible in the room.
He leaned in a little closer, forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice lowering like the hour demanded honesty. “I always wanted to be that for you,” he said. “Even when you didn’t need me to be.”
Your chest tightened—not painfully, but in that terrifyingly sweet way that told you he meant every word. “It’s not like I need you anyway…” You smile shyly as you nudge him with your elbow.
“No?” He laughed, “you don’t need me, Boo?” He beamed, wrapping his arms around your waist—pulling your side into him.
You shook your head, “nope—oof! Dude—”
Burying his face into your neck as he blew raspberries into it, he pulled you back flat onto the bed as you both laughed. You hit the mattress with a soft thud, breath catching in your throat before dissolving into helpless laughter. “Riki—stop—!” you wheezed, kicking a leg uselessly as he doubled down, arms locked around you like he’d been waiting all night for an excuse to tackle you.
He blew another loud, obnoxious raspberry against your neck, the kind that made your whole body jolt. “Don’t need me, huh?” he taunted, his words muffled against your skin as he climbed on top of you. “Say it again. Go ahead. I dare you.”
You tried to twist away, but his grip only tightened, warm and solid and stupidly comforting. “I don’t—!” you squeaked, halfway grinning, halfway choking on your own breath. “I don’t need—Riki, seriously—!”
“Liar,” he declared, without even giving you a chance to finish, pressing his forehead into the curve of your shoulder like you were some sort of pillow he owned. “Biggest liar I’ve ever met.”
You fought him for another second—maybe two—before your muscles gave out in that familiar way they always did around him. The laughter faded into a soft, breathless quiet, the room still humming with the echo of it. His weight settled over you, heavy and warm, like he’d decided this was his new home address.
He exhaled against your neck, softer this time—pressing a gentle kiss there before he raised his head. Nose to nose with you as you both smiled when your eyes met, his voice dropping back to something unbearably gentle. “How was school? You haven’t found my replacement yet, huh?”
“Nuh-uh…no one could ever replace you.”
His lips quirked—not into that smug little smirk he wore when he was winning, but something smaller, almost startled. Like he hadn’t expected you to hand him an answer that soft, that honest, without putting up some kind of fight first.
His fingers brushed your waist, thumb tracing slow, unconscious circles like he was memorizing the shape of you. “Yeah?” he murmured, the word barely more than a breath. “You saying I’m…irreplaceable?”
You rolled your eyes, but it came out ruined—too fond, too warm. “That’s literally what ‘no one could ever replace you’ means.”
His thumb paused mid-circle on your waist, the warmth of his touch lingering like a question he was scared to ask out loud.
“Yeah, but…” he said slowly, eyes flicking over your face as if trying to read something between your lashes. “You say stuff like that and then pretend we’re just—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Nothing.”
Your breath caught. Not because he was wrong, but because he was painfully, dangerously right. “We are nothing,” you said a little too quickly, a little too defensively. “Like—we have to be. You know how it’d look if anyone found out.”
Riki stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was green. “How it’d look to who? Our friends?”
“Yes!” You sat up slightly, annoyed that he wasn’t getting it. “If they think I’m sneaking around with you, it’s gonna make everything weird. I don’t want Leehan or Shota or anybody else thinking there’s…a thing. I don’t want a rift.”
“A rift,” he repeated, deadpan. “You think you and me laughing at two in the morning in your bed is gonna break up the Fantastic Four?”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.” He tugged you a tiny bit closer by your hip, eyes locked on yours. “Boo, we’ve gotten through worse. They’re not gonna fall apart because we—” He hesitated, jaw working. “—because we care about each other differently now.”
You swallowed hard, your voice smaller now. “I just don’t want them picking sides.”
His expression softened like melting wax. He leaned his forehead to yours again, gentler this time. “No one’s picking sides. Not unless you start picking fights again, and even then I’m still betting on you.”
You snorted, the tension easing just an inch.
He took the opportunity, slipping a hand up your back, grounding you with his warmth. “Look,” he murmured, “I get not wanting to make waves. I do. But don’t pretend this is nothing just to keep the peace.”
Your heartbeat thudded once, sharp and loud.
“Because it’s not nothing,” he whispered. “Not to me.”
“I know, Riki…Just—please?” You bring your hand up to his cheek, brushing his chiseled jaw. Though he shook his head slowly with soft eyes, you whispered—lips brushing against his as you mumbled. “Please, for me? Please…?”
His breath hitched the second your lips grazed his—soft enough to deny, close enough to ruin him. His eyes fluttered half-shut, like he couldn’t decide whether to lean in or back away before he did something stupid. “Baby…” His voice was barely sound now, more exhale than words. You felt it against your mouth, warm and shaky. “You know I’d do anything you asked.”
You nudged closer—not kissing him, not quite, just letting the shape of him press into the shape of you. Your palm was warm on his jaw, your thumb sweeping the curve of his cheekbone. His breath stuttered again. “But you’re asking me to pretend,” he murmured, eyes opening fully. “To pretend I don’t…feel this. With you. About you.”
Your fingers flexed at his skin, and he shivered.
“I’m not asking you to pretend,” you whispered back. “I’m just asking you to help me protect what we already have. Before anyone else gets involved. Before it turns into drama or sides or expectations. I just…want us. Quietly. Carefully.”
His jaw clenched under your hand—less anger, more restraint. The kind he only ever showed with you.
“And if I say yes,” he asked, voice low, “does that mean I only get you in moments like this? When the door’s closed and everyone’s asleep?”
Your throat bobbed.
“If that’s what it takes to make sure that we don’t ruin our group.” you whispered.
For a beat, he didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you, his forehead pressing to yours like he was steadying himself on the only thing that hadn’t ever failed him.
Then he exhaled, long and quiet, his hand sliding from your back to cradle the side of your neck. “Fine,” he murmured. “For you.” His nose brushed yours, gentle, aching. “But don’t ask me to act like you don’t mean something to me. Even if no one else gets to know yet.”
His thumb traced your throat, slow, deliberate. “I can’t fake that. Not even for you.”
—
The next morning
—
“Cousin?!” Leehan called out to his mom as she moved through the kitchen. “What cousin?!”
Mrs. Kim sighed as she chopped up vegetables, using the knife as a pointer to gesture to the basket of laundry on the counter that she needed her son to fold. “My friend from high school, Alexa, is sending her daughter to go to school here.”
With a roll of the eye, “school or university? Neither start for another month and a half.” He goes to fold some of the shirts in the basket. Tucking in the small ones of his younger brother and sister.
“She got into USC. I thought she could stay here, hang out with you and your friends. Just to get acclimated.” She says, looking down as she chops up a carrot. “Her mom’s staying back in Honduras where they live now and she just wanted to get out. See the world other than where she’s from. You get it.”
Leehan sighed, “we don’t need another buddy; and why do we need another person in here? It’s already crowded as is.” His little siblings breeze past him, pushing him into the counter as they giggle—running amok in the kitchen and living room.
Mrs. Kim slammed the knife down with a sneer. “No playing in the living room! Go in the yard!”
The two little ones scattered instantly, shrieking as they bolted for the back door. Leehan winced, rubbing the spot on his hip where a rogue elbow had caught him. “See?” he muttered. “Chaos. Pure chaos. And you wanna add another college student into this circus?”
His mom didn’t even look up as she slid the carrots into a bowl. “She’s not just any college student. She’s Alexa’s daughter. And she’s never lived away from home before. She’ll need support.”
“Support,” he echoed flatly. “Right. And by support you mean me.”
Mrs. Kim shot him a look that could level a grown man. “I mean all of us. But especially you. You’re the oldest. Responsible. Reliable.”
He blinked. “Mom, you asked me to unclog the shower last week and I nearly passed out from the smell.”
“Exactly,” she said, patting his cheek. “Builds character.”
He groaned into the laundry basket. “And what’s her name?” he asked, voice muffled in defeat.
“Xiomara.”
Leehan lifted his head like she’d just announced they were adopting a Bengal tiger. “Xiomara?” he repeated, slowly, like the name itself was a threat. “Mom, that sounds like a girl who walks into a room and immediately ruins my life.”
Mrs. Kim swatted his arm with a dish towel. “She’s very sweet!”
“That’s what people said about Riki before he started bossing me around,” he muttered.
From outside, one of his little siblings shrieked triumphantly, followed by a loud thump. Mrs. Kim didn’t even flinch. “You’ll take her around, introduce her to your friends, show her the area—”
“Mom.”
“—help her move in, make sure she’s eating—”
“Mom.”
“—maybe drive her to orientation—”
“Mom!”
Finally, she looked up.
“What?”
“I’m not a babysitter,” he huffed. “I barely babysit them.” He pointed out the window where one of the kids was trying to climb the garden hose like it was a rope in gym class.
Mrs. Kim clicked her tongue as she went to chop some garlic. “She’s not a baby. She’s eighteen.”
Leehan’s soul left his body. “EIGHT—Mom, that’s literally barely legal! I can’t be seen hanging out with a kid! I’m twenty! People will think I’m recruiting!”
Mrs. Kim pursed her lips, squinting her eyes as she clutched the knife tighter in her hands. No words were spoken as she tapped the surface slowly.
Leehan froze.
Not because she looked angry—but because that tap? That knife-tap? That was the “choose your next words like your life depends on it” tap.
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay. Alright. That came out wrong.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He gulped.
“What I meant,” he corrected quickly, “was that—uh—eighteen is…young. Very young. Like ‘still doesn’t know which side of the street has the bus stop’ young.”
His mother didn’t blink. “Continue.”
“And!” he added, voice cracking like a man under interrogation, “—and I am not qualified for mentorship. I’m barely feeding myself on time. I had cereal for dinner yesterday.”
“That’s because you refused to eat the stew I made.”
“It had mushrooms!”
Tap. Tap.
He winced.
Mrs. Kim sighed through her nose, the way women do when they’ve raised three children, a husband, and apparently now one extra stray. “She is not a kid. She is a guest. A guest who will be living under my roof. Which means she will be treated like family.”
Leehan nodded rapidly. “Right. Family. Like a sibling.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Perfect,” he said.
A beat.
“Except,” she raised a brow, “you will not treat her like you treat your siblings.”
He blinked. “Why not?”
“Because you terrorize them.”
“I don’t.” He shakes his head.
“I’m not arguing with you, son.”
“Fine.” He nods in relent. “So…where’s she gonna sleep?”
“Your room.”
The words landed like a brick to the skull.
Leehan straightened slowly, arms going stiff at his sides. “My…room,” he repeated, making sure he hadn’t misheard. “As in—my room, where I sleep. Where my stuff lives. Where I—exist.”
“Yes,” his mother said simply, drying her hands on a towel. “She needs a space that’s clean and quiet. And yours is the only one that makes sense.”
He stared at her, chest tight. “Mom, my room is my only space. The only place in this entire house that’s not—” he gestured around at the chaos, the abandoned toys, the scribbles on the fridge, the sticky handprints on the cupboards— “that.”
“I know,” she said, and her voice wasn’t sharp this time. It was steady. Unmoving. “Which is why I’m trusting you with this.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. The weight behind her words was unmistakable.
“She’s coming here alone,” Mrs. Kim continued softly. “No family. No support system. No familiarity. She’s walking into a country she doesn’t know, a language she barely uses, a school she’s hardly seen. She’s still a child to her mother, no matter how old she is.”
Leehan’s breath stalled.
“She needs safety,” she said. “And stability. She needs someone who won’t overwhelm her or talk down to her. At least give her sympathy.”
He pressed his lips together, throat tightening.
“And you,” she added, looking him in the eyes now, “are the one I trust the most to give her that. Not because you’re perfect. But because you’re my son and I raised you to take care of people always.”
Silence.
A thick, heavy silence.
He let out a slow breath. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll move my things.”
Mrs. Kim nodded, relieved—but not triumphant. “Thank you.”
He stared at the floor, at the laundry basket, at nothing in particular.
“…What’s she like?” he asked after a moment. Not annoyed. Not sarcastic. Just…trying to understand the person stepping into his life.
His mom paused, thinking. “Smart,” she said. “Kind. Quiet. More observant than she lets on. But she's a nice girl, you guys would like her.”
He nodded once.
Then again.
“Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll be good to her.”
“I know you will.”
A beat passed—the kind that settles into the air, makes everything feel more real.
“What time does her flight get in?” he asked.
“One hour.”
His eyes widened. “Mom—”
“Go,” she said, waving him off. “Take the car, I’ll move your stuff.”
He grabbed his keys, heart pounding as he jogged toward the door.
And as he makes his way out to the beat up driveway, he comes across you walking up his porch. He steps back, soft laughter as he puts his hands up in defense. “Woah…gonna bite my head off, Chihuahua?”
“Shut up,” you cross your arms—rolling your eyes as you resist a laugh. “I left my bag here yesterday. I’ve come to retrieve it.”
He nods affirmatively, brushing past you as he gently yanks a curl of yours on his way down the steps. “It’s in my closet.”
You reached down to swat his arm. “Where you going?”
He turns back, one foot already on the next step, breath still a little fast from the sprint out of the house. The sunlight catches on his face, softening everything he’s trying so hard to keep steady.
“Airport,” he says simply.
Your brows pull together. “Now?”
He huffs—short, almost incredulous—as if he just realized the timing doesn’t make any damn sense either. “Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Apparently I’m a morning person now.”
You blink at him. “Since when?”
“Since today,” he says, dead serious.
There’s no joke behind it. No smirk. He’s standing there looking wired, focused, too awake for someone who hasn’t even had breakfast yet.
You tilt your head, studying him. Something in his voice is different—quieter, heavier. “Family?”
He hesitates. Just long enough for the truth to flash across his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Kind of.”
“Can I ride with you?” You shrug, “I’m bored and I have literally nothing else to do.”
He jerks his chin toward the driveway, already moving, steps quick and purposeful. You follow him down the porch, your shoulder brushing his for half a second—a tiny contact, but he feels it. You can tell by the way his breath stutters before he masks it. Annoyance but patient in some way.
The car beeps unlocked.
He opens the passenger door for you without a word. You lean against the door before you sit, preparing to ask him something. But as you do, a voice calls out:
“Oi! Where are you two off to?”
You both turn to see Shota coming from across the street—backpack in tow as he bounces over. His dyed, blond hair shining in the beaming sun. “You two know I have attachment issues.”
You laugh softly as you brush your hair off your shoulder. “Ask your best friend, his mood is shot.”
Leehan sighed, “my mood isn’t anything, Bun—I just have to go and you’re making me late.”
“Late for what?!” Another voice calls across the street.
It was weird, yet convenient how your guys’ houses were lined up. The best way to describe it would be akin to a square and its vertices. Right beside Leehan was your house. Directly parallel to you was Riki, then parallel to Leehan was Shota.
Riki jogs down his driveway, one hand raking through his hair, the other shoving his keys into his pocket like he’s already annoyed at the world and hasn’t even reached the sidewalk yet.
He eyes the three of you gathered around Leehan’s half-opened car door. “What’s happening?” he asks, breath a little uneven like he’d been rushing.
Shota throws his hands up dramatically. “A betrayal is happening. They were about to leave me. Again.”
Leehan’s jaw flexes. “No one’s betraying anyone. I just have somewhere to be.”
Riki’s gaze flicks to you, quick and sharp, then to Leehan—reading the tension instantly. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Leehan mutters.
You answer for him. “He’s lying. Obviously. He opened the car door for me without calling me a dickhead. I’m concerned.”
Shota gasps like you’ve announced a national emergency. “Oh that’s new.”
Leehan drags a hand down his face. “Can you three—just this once—not be—”
“Entertaining?” Shota offers.
“Observant?” Riki adds.
“Inconveniencing?” you finish.
He looks heavenward, praying for strength. Then he jerks his thumb at the car. “Just get in. All of you.”
“Yay!” You and Shota cheered simultaneously. Riki smiled softly as he opened the back passenger door for the older guy to get in.
Shota slid in the backseat, putting his backpack down by his feet—settling into the seat as he fanned himself. “Can you turn the AC on? It’s like a toaster oven in here.”
Leehan makes his way around the van. “The car’s not even on yet, genius.”
Riki snorts, “move over,” he tapped the top of the van as he waited for Shota to shimmy to the other side. But before he could even put his leg in, a deep, raspy voice—diagonal from the driveway called out for him. “Riki!”
All four of your guys’ attention went in the direction of the sound. The birds chirped over the white noise of the block as somehow the sky clouded over. Reo.
You sighed, rolling your eyes as you turned your back again. Leaning against the car with your arms crossed.
Reo was already discussed previously. Not in any depth anyway because as much as he seemed to matter to Riki—he mattered to you as well.
As an enemy.
As an older brother, though, he was Riki’s sole caregiver and provider amidst their parents not being around. While Reo had to juggle being fifteen and taking care of his ten year old brother, he ensured that Riki was in school, was fed, and had what he needed to essentially have a normal childhood just as anyone else.
However, as Riki grew and started to demand (not literally, but metaphorically) the presence of their mom and dad—Reo didn’t know how to handle it. Couldn’t fathom or configure the idea of wearing so many different hats at once. Mom, dad, brother, nurse, personal wallet, cheerleader, chauffeur until Riki was sixteen, the list goes on.
Leehan, Shota, and you had always had the luxury of support by parental figures—something Riki didn’t have—but it was always afforded to him. Never did any of your parents turn him or Reo away for anything because they knew how hard their circumstances were. But no one dared to call social services because it meant that both boys would be lost in the abyss of the American foster care system and of course, everyone has heard such great things about what happens there.
If either of them needed food because Reo’s check didn’t clear—they got it. Christmas gifts. Clothes. Hot water. Anything in the world, those boys had it as long as you, Shota, and Leehan did.
But once Reo graduated high school (with a C average, just by the skin of his teeth)—he knew to follow in the legacy that his father had left him with—R12. Leaving him to stay in Freeridge and get Riki through middle school, high school, and everything else.
And things seemed fine. Reo was going to work. Participating in the gang dealings that both boys seemed to be familiar with but the older they got, the more the cracks started to show.
Riki learned how to be multiple people at once—a friend, support system, an advocate for all three of you…and Reo’s little brother, the kid everyone in R12 kept an eye on because Reo would set the whole block on fire if anything happened to him.
But it was a lot more complex than that. Reo ensured Riki wasn’t touched, ensuring he didn’t lose his respect. But something shifted once Riki turned fifteen.
He stopped caring about the sanctity of Riki’s youth. Disregarded everything that mattered when it came to his brother.
Riki had dreams. Ones that seemed small to others but too big for Freeridge.
And it was simple: make it out.
Since he was a kid, Riki had wished upon a star, tossed a coin into a fountain, closed his eyes extra hard during every birthday wish, wrote a million times under his pillow—for his entire life—the same wish.
To leave.
Not to abandon, not to forget—just to escape the gravity of a place that had never loved him gently. Riki wanted sunlight without bars across it, air without someone else’s name on it, choices that weren’t choreographed by a gang legacy he never asked to inherit.
Reo saw that dream as an insult.
Because to him, leaving meant rejecting the only thing he had ever been good at. The only thing that kept a roof over their heads. The only thing that made him valuable in a world that chewed him up at fifteen and spit him out as a man.
So when Riki talked about getting out—going to college, traveling, anything that didn’t involve the R12 sign—Reo didn’t hear hope. Just betrayal.
And that’s when the shift happened. No more rides to practice. No more checking if Riki ate. No more showing up to school events pretending he wasn’t bone-tired.
Instead—cold orders. Sharp warnings. A hardness that didn’t belong in a home but lived there anyway.
Reo stopped seeing Riki as a kid. Stopped seeing him as a brother. Started seeing him as a liability—someone who wanted to run from the very life Reo had bled to keep intact for him.
Riki never said it out loud, not to you, not to anyone. But every time Reo’s voice cut through the street, every time those R12 men watched him too closely, every time his shoulders went rigid—
You could tell. Because you knew these three like yourself. If you were an impulsive, neurotic, hotheaded chihuahua then Leehan was a pressured, ticking time bomb with oldest sibling syndrome. Shota was a mildly deluded individual that blocked out the negativity in the world by living by his rules. Like Riki was a hurricane contained in a bottle—soft and mesmerizing one moment, destructive and untamable the next. He absorbed everything around him—the chaos, the expectations, the danger—and carried it with a grace that no one else could sustain. But inside, that wish to escape, to be free of Freeridge and the shadows of R12, was a constant pressure, a weight that bent him without breaking him.
And you could see it in the way he flinched when Reo’s name was mentioned, in the subtle tension in his shoulders when someone lingered too long on the block, in the way he smiled a little too hard, laughed a little too loud, just to convince himself he was still okay.
He was caught between worlds: the world he wanted, and the world that had claimed him before he even knew how to fight for himself. And you—well, you understood that storm better than anyone.
The older brother in question jogged across the street. His gaze never left his little brother the whole time. When he finally made it to the driveway, Reo—now twenty-five—stood before you and everyone.
Him and Riki were exactly the same height. A nice six foot one. Reo’s presence hit like a wall, all angles and edges and deliberate weight. His hair, dark and cropped close on the sides, caught the sun in streaks of bronze where it had faded at the tips. His jaw was sharp, square, defined, with the faintest shadow of stubble that made him look older than his twenty-five years. Eyes like storm clouds—a very dark brown—hovered between calculating and exhausted, the kind of eyes that had seen too much too young.
Broad shoulders, strong arms, and a chest that filled out his fitted shirt made him look like he could carry the weight of the street on his back. Even his stance—feet planted just so, fists loose but ready—spoke of someone who had fought to keep everything together, someone who moved with both authority and quiet warning. Every detail about him—the set of his brow, the crease at the corner of his mouth, the way his gaze flicked to Riki first—was a reminder that he wasn’t just an older brother. He was a force.
But he wasn’t impolite.
He scanned the rest of you three with a masked smile. Bending down slightly, poking his head into the van—he caught Shota’s view. “Hi, Shota.”
The guy nodded silently, waving his hand as he put one of his wired earbuds in.
“Donghyun,” he nodded as he looked at Leehan—who leaned against the car with his hands and opened his palm. Hardly smiling but just enough to acknowledge the elder.
Then finally, his eyes fell to you. More like your side profile as you refused to even look at him. The last time you laid eyes on him was the day you left for college—so nearly a year ago. You hadn’t visited during breaks, money was too tight for you to come back and forth.
Watching him stand on the sidewalk beside his younger brother as the three of you all drove onto the next part of your lives was probably the most sadistic thing you’ve seen out of him. The memory was like a picture in your mind. Him, resting a hand on Riki’s shoulder as their eyes hadn’t left you. Like he was reminding him of what he never wanted to come to fruition for Riki.
“Bunnyboo…” he called out with a smile. “You look beautiful. I’ve missed you.”
You stiffened at the voice, the familiar tone threading through the warm morning air, carrying all the weight of his presence. That smile—something in it was the same as before, teasing yet measured, like he had rehearsed it a thousand times to keep control—but there was an undercurrent there, an edge of something almost vulnerable, something carefully tucked beneath the force of his usual armor.
“Hm.” You inhaled, arms tightening as you crossed them.
He probed on though, “you’ve grown. You still carry your Bratz dolls in your backpack?”
You scoff, smacking your teeth. “That was like fifteen years ago.”
Reo chuckled, a low, controlled sound that somehow carried both amusement and a trace of disbelief. “That long, huh? I feel like that’s the kind of thing that sticks with you forever,” he said, eyes flicking briefly to the gold, nameplate necklace with your actual name on it. The one you wore every single day since you were a kid. There was a softness in that look, fleeting, but it was there—an acknowledgment of the person you were then, the person you’d become.
You rolled your eyes, brushing a curl behind your ear. “Yeah, well, some of us grow up,” you said, trying for a casual tone, though your voice carried just enough bite to hint that you weren’t entirely relaxed.
He took your jab and let it roll down his back. His tongue poked his cheek as he turned to Riki. “We got business.”
Riki’s shoulders tensed, the familiar flicker of unease crossing his features. “Business? Now? At nine in the morning?” His voice carried a note of incredulity that didn’t quite mask the edge of confusion.
Reo didn’t look at him, didn’t even blink. His gaze was fixed, sharp, deliberate, scanning the block like he already knew every corner, every potential obstacle. “Now,” he said again, voice low but iron-strong. “We move fast, or it’s done before it even starts.”
You leaned back slightly against the car, arms still crossed, observing the quiet, absolute command in his posture. Every movement was deliberate, economical—Reo didn’t waste energy on theatrics. Even the way he stood beside Riki, that protective shadow, made your stomach knot. The tension wasn’t just between the brothers—it radiated outward, threading through the air around everyone else, a subtle, undeniable warning.
Riki exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Okay…” He turned to the three of you with a look of frustration. “I’ll see y’all when you get back.”
You watched him hesitate for a moment, shoulders stiff, jaw tight, before he finally gave a small nod. “Be careful,” you muttered under your breath but loud enough for him to catch.
Reo’s eyes flicked toward you, the storm behind them softening just a fraction, like he recognized the weight of your gaze. No words, just a subtle tilt of his head—a silent acknowledgment. Then he turned, and with practiced precision, started walking down the street, Riki falling into step beside him like a shadow, smaller but unwilling to be left behind.
The van sat there idling, warm in the morning sun. You pressed your palms into each, trying to calm the sudden tightness in your chest. The air seemed heavier, charged, as if the space around them carried all the years of responsibility, anger, and unspoken plights between the brothers.
Shota leaned back against the seat, muttering, “Damn. That’s…intense.”
Leehan just shook his head, lips pressed together. “Yeah. That’s Reo for you. Always been that way.”
You stayed quiet, watching the figures recede, knowing that once they disappeared around the corner, the street would feel smaller—and emptier—but the echo of their presence would linger, a quiet warning you couldn’t ignore.
—
The drive south to LAX was relaxing, you on the aux as some music played comfortably. As Leehan pushed the van down the freeway, you hummed along to the music as you watched the world pass you by.
But of course, silence was always short-lived as it pertained to your friends. “So, I assume you and Riki are together again?”
You turned to him with a flabbergasted, yet offended expression. “I’m sorry?”
His eyes widened, tightening on the steering wheel. “I said, ‘I assume you and Riki are hanging out together again?”
“Oh…”
“...as in, you guys aren’t fighting anymore?” He leaned back as he signaled to move to another lane.
“Oh…yeah.” You nodded as your heart rate simmered a little. “Yeah, we squashed it.”
“So what happened?” He said absentmindedly as he turned the music down a little so he could hear you properly.
You gulp, keeping your eyes looking out of the window. “Nothing. We just agreed to…chill, you know. No beef.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Leehan laughed, “you were at his throat less than a day ago and now things are just squashed? What actually happened between you guys? Is what he said true or not?”
This was the thing you hated about lying: the guilt of it. But the fact that you had to think of a lie, say it convincingly, then remember it was entirely too stressful.
Riki didn’t even want to keep this up. He wanted to show you off, hold your hand walking down the street, kiss you whenever he felt like. Not in the dark or behind closed doors within the confines of your rooms or the city’s outskirts. But of course, he was a simple man—and entirely too easy. Whatever it took to be with you, he’d do it.
But your fear of commitment and judgment superseded anything that either of you could want.
“No, we didn’t sleep together.” You said with finality. “He just said that because some of the idiotic R12 members were talking about getting at me. So he—” You used air quotes, “‘put a claim on me’ so that they wouldn’t try anything.”
“So why didn’t he tell us that he did that?”
You somehow reached a flow state. “Because he knows how you two run your fat mouths. It’s just better if everyone thinks the same thing, I guess. That way he doesn’t have to remember who knows what.”
Leehan’s brow arched so high it was nearly touching his hairline. “Mhm. Right. Because he’s soooo organized like that.”
You shot him a glare sharp enough to slice bread. “Can you just drive?”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes still on you. “Nah, because something’s not adding up. Riki said one thing. Shota and I heard another. You acted one way. And now this?” He motioned in a circle at your whole existence. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar,” you snapped.
“So you admit that you’re lying?”
You groaned, sliding lower into your seat until you were practically melting into the upholstery. The anxiety sat in your chest like a cinder block. Keeping a secret relationship hidden from a man like Leehan—who was basically a human lie detector fused with a nosy aunt—felt like trying to hide a fireworks show behind a napkin.
And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong. Your lies were getting thinner, shakier, stitched together by panic. You felt the guilt creeping up your throat—warm, prickly, accusing.
Leehan glanced at you. His voice softened just enough to unsettle you. “Are you scared of him?”
You blinked. “What? Who?”
“Reo.”
You laughed, actually laughed at how off he was. “Please, that dickhead has nothing to do with this.” You folded your hands over your stomach as you crossed your legs in an effort to warm them from the blasting air conditioner. “He doesn’t scare shit over here.”
“So what are you hiding and why lie about it?”
“Oh my god,” you groaned. “Bitch you are so fucking nosey!”
Leehan grinned like a cat who’d finally cornered a mouse. “Yeah. And?”
“And mind your damn business!”
“It is my business,” he argued, turning onto the main road like he wasn’t detonating your blood pressure. “Because every time you lie, Riki acts weird, and when Riki acts weird, I get dragged into some emotional bullshit I didn’t ask for.”
You clutched your chest dramatically. “So now I’m inconveniencing you?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even hesitate. “My chakras are weighed down.”
You stared at him. “You don’t even know what chakras are.”
“I know yours are clogged with secrets.”
You slapped his arm—not hard, but enough to make him jerk the wheel a little. “Leehan!”
“Hey! Assaulting the driver is crazy.”
“Being the IRS of my personal life is crazy.”
He snorted, glancing over at you for half a second. “So you admit there’s something to tax?”
Your jaw dropped. “I didn’t say that!”
“You said it with your face.”
“Shut up.”
He hummed, smug, fingers tapping the wheel like he’d solved a crime. “One day, you’re gonna tell me.”
“One day,” you shot back, “I’m gonna push you out of a moving vehicle.”
“Good,” he said, nodding. “Maybe the fall will knock the truth loose.”
“I wish death on you. A slow, agonizing death. But until then,” you sighed. “Which terminal are we headed to?” You gestured ahead to the iconic big white letters that indicated your arrival.
“Terminal B…” Leehan sighed as he leaned forward, inspecting the bustling airport and the pedestrians making their ways through.
You reached behind you to grab Shota’s backpack, shuffling through it for his bag of sour gummy worms. The owner of said bag extended his hand for you to give him some, not even speaking because he had his own music playing.
You dropped a few gummy worms into Shota’s waiting palm, then tore one in half with your teeth like a feral squirrel. “Thank you for your service,” you mumbled around the candy.
Shota gave you a thumbs-up without looking up, completely zoned out to whatever playlist he lived on. You swore the guy could sleep through a tornado but wake up instantly if someone opened a bag of snacks within a five-mile radius.
Leehan eased the car into the arrival lane, glaring at the chaos like it personally offended him. “Why are airports always like fever dreams?” he muttered. “Every time I come here, I lose five years of my life.”
“Who are we scooping anyway?” You say through a mouthful of candy. “An uncle or some shit?”
“No, my cousin—well…she’s not blood but…” He shrugs as he grabs a gummy from the bag.
You snorted, “I got you, that’s just how people of color work, I guess. Everyone’s a cousin.”
He nodded, “yeah, but this is my first time meeting her. Her mom and my mom went to high school together way back when. Then they moved and shit, now her daughter is going to uni here in the States. Or…will be.”
You furrowed your brows inquisitively, “where are they from?”
“Honduras.”
Your brows lifted in surprise as a smile hit your face. “Oh snap, look at Mrs. Kim knowing people. Mrs. Worldwide.”
Leehan snorted, shaking his head. “Please don’t gas her up like that. She already thinks she’s Pitbull.”
You laughed, leaning back in your seat. “No, because I know she be telling people she’s multicultural just for the fun of it.”
“She does,” he said flatly. “She told her nail tech last week she ‘turns up’ when she listens to reggaetón. Like who says that anymore?”
You slapped his arm. “Shut UP.”
He groaned. “I was like, Mom…you don’t even know who Bad Bunny is.”
Shota, still munching gummies with one earbud in, glanced up. “She thought his name was Benny.”
You wheezed. “Isn’t his name Benito? She was close.”
“Not the point.” Shota smiled, taking another gummy worm. “I just don’t get how…”
Shota’s joke faded into the background, but you barely heard it. Something in your chest shifted—tightened—like a knot being pulled slowly, deliberately, until it demanded to be acknowledged. Everything seemed like white noise.
You watched the crowds outside the car, people dragging luggage, hugging relatives, starting trips, ending them. Moving. Living. And it hit you—hard—that Riki should’ve been here. Should’ve been laughing with you all. Complaining about the LA traffic. Stealing Shota’s gummies and flicking his ear just because he could.
He should’ve been in this moment.
But he wasn’t. Because he was stuck.
Your fingers curled around the bag of candy, knuckles whitening. The thought rose before you could stop it, blooming sharp and aching in your chest. You didn’t say anything at first—just let the idea sit there, heavy, terrifying, obvious.
You didn’t even realize you’d spoken until you heard your own voice.
“…I want him out.”
Leehan looked over. “Who?”
“Wait, I didn’t even do anything…” Shota said with a frown.
You kept your eyes straight ahead. If you looked at either of them, you’d talk yourself out of it. “Riki. I want him out of R12.”
Shota sat up, the surprise on his face softening into something more careful. No jokes this time. No easy shrug.
The words kept coming, quiet but sure, like you’d been holding them back for years.
“I keep thinking,” you said, voice low, “about all the things he’s missing. All the things he’ll keep missing because Reo won’t let him go.” You shook your head slightly. “I can’t stand the idea of him still being there while the rest of us get to…grow. Move forward. Be young. Be stupid. Be normal.”
Leehan’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t interrupt. Neither did Shota.
“He had the best grades out of all of us in school. Joined clubs, made friends, community service, everything. All down the drain because his selfish older brother couldn’t see past Freeridge. But it’s time for me to be selfish, guys, because I want more. For him.”
You swallowed hard. “And I don’t know…maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s impossible, but I just—” you exhaled shakily. “I keep thinking there has to be a way to get him out. Really out. A way to give him a chance at the life he keeps pretending he doesn’t want.”
Shota let out a slow breath through his nose, like he was trying to process ten different emotions at once. “You’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he murmured.
You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.
Because once the thought crawled into your chest, it refused to leave—this stubborn, aching truth that wouldn’t unclench its grip. Riki laughing on a couch that wasn’t surrounded by lookouts. Riki sleeping without one eye open. Riki showing up to dumb little hangouts like this one, rolling his eyes, complaining about the snacks. Riki choosing things instead of surviving them.
You blinked hard. “I hate that I’m starting to picture him as a memory while I’m still alive.”
Shota’s jaw flexed. Leehan’s stare stayed glued to the road, but his knuckles had gone white.
“He’s not gone,” Leehan said quietly.
“No,” you agreed, throat tight, “but you know how that life is. You either end up in prison, dead, or both. And I don’t even want to think about either.”
Shota shifted, like the words physically hit him. “Don’t say that,” he muttered, but it wasn't a reprimand—it was fear.
You stared down at your hands. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Neither of them did.
The signs passed, blocking the sun for a moment—casting a shadow across the windshield, washing the car in gold every few seconds. Each flash made the ache in your chest feel sharper, more real, like the world itself was trying to illuminate a truth you’d been avoiding.
“I keep replaying stupid things,” you said softly. “Like him talking about wanting to visit a college campus. Or saying he wanted to see snow for the first time. Or—” your breath trembled, “—how he used to say he wanted to get out of Freeridge before he turned twenty-one.” You swallowed again, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “He says it like a joke now. Like something he already accepted he’ll never have.”
Shota looked out his window, voice barely above a whisper. “He stopped talking about the future altogether.”
That got you. A quiet, painful exhale left your lungs. “Exactly,” you murmured. “It’s like he’s already grieving a life he hasn’t even lived.”
Leehan finally spoke, low and certain. “Then we don’t let that happen.”
You turned your head, heart thudding. He wasn’t saying it like a fantasy. He was saying it like a plan.
“We figure out a way,” he continued, eyes still on the road but voice steady, “to give him a real shot. A clean break. Something he can’t walk away from, even if he tries.”
✰ welcome to my personal studio lot—where every show i love gets rewritten, remixed, and reborn as its own little story. this series is a love letter to the comfort shows and films that raised me, the ones that stuck with me, and the characters i always wished i could write into a scene.
✰ each fic in this collection lives inside the world of a medium, but never as a copy-paste. all inspired by the original, but told completely my way.
✰ you don’t need to have watched a single show/film here to follow along, but if you have—it’s like watching the director’s cut.
roll out the red carpet. grab your popcorn. wander the lot.
the episodes start whenever you hit play.
✰ now streaming: the circle — nishimura riki
featured work: on my block (2018–2021)
✰ synopsis: four childhood best friends thought distance wouldn’t change them. but when you come back home to freeridge after your first year of college, a buried secret and gang politics collide—testing loyalty, love, and the block that raised them.
✰ mpaa rating: TV-MA — fictional universe (on my block / freeridge, california.), coming of age kinda, found family, morally grey characters, swearing, “secret relationship”, implied sexual content, angst, fluff, banter, drug use and mention, underage drinking, distorted self-image, jealousy, situationship to lovers, arguments, gun violence and gang shit, crying, socioeconomic commentary, crude humor (some boundary pushing, but what is art without such), breaking the 4th wall + more to add upon release
soundtrack to enhance reading experience: spotify | apple
start the show and hit play—
✰ pilot - fuck 12
✰ episode 2 - tba
✰ episode 3 - tba
✰ episode 4 - tba
✰ synopsis: four childhood best friends thought distance wouldn’t change them. but when you come back home to freeridge after your first year of college, a buried secret and gang politics collide—testing loyalty, love, and the block that raised them.
✰ run time: 17.1k words
✰ mpaa rating: TV-MA — fictional universe (on my block / freeridge, california.), coming of age kinda, found family, morally grey characters, swearing, “secret relationship”, implied sexual content, angst, fluff, banter, drug use and mention, underage drinking, distorted self-image, jealousy, situationship to lovers IM SORRY PLEASE, arguments, gun violence and gang shit, crying, summerween (as per gravity falls love that show), socioeconomic commentary, crude humor (some boundary pushing, but what is art without such), breaking the 4th wall a lil bit (it’s kinda fun i promise)
viewer's discretion advised.
✰ authors note!! (important): hey, welcome to the circle. this, alongside other fics in the future, will be apart of my “as seen on tv” series where i essentially make fics based on my favorite shows! i rmm doing this during my wattpad days but now it has gotten a name and a full blown makeover seeing as i am way more skilled than i was 5 years ago (or at least i’d like to think so).
these fics will literally be a mixture of me writing from memory of the show’s events, creating new scenes and dialogue (obvi, this won’t be a fic ON the show), creating whole new tales but just within the universe itself, etc. some may be oneshots, some may not be! i will make that judgment based on if i feel the fic calls for it or not. but the circle will have more than one. and there will be an upload schedule upon completion (i'm far along already dw), so make sure you turn that tv on.
this is a pilot!! more so, a temperature check to see how we're liking it thus far and if you want more.
you do not need to have watched the shows to understand fics. these can be read separately from the shows. though, it would be more fun!! i’d always recommend on my block as it is one of—if not—the greatest netflix series of all time. it’s all up to you.
soundtrack to enhance reading experience: spotify | apple
You’ve only been back in Freeridge, California for ten minutes and somehow your feet already know where to go.
You grew up on this block—this cracked sidewalk, that bent stop sign, the same sun-faded corner store where y’all used to beg for Slurpees after school. Childhood friends turned family: you, Shota, Leehan, and Riki. Neighbors since tricycles and scraped knees.
You walk up to Leehan’s house—still has the red folding chairs on the porch, the one with the wind chime—and see him and Shota inside through the window, arguing over something stupid like always.
At this point, you knew this house like you knew your own. If you were ever even really there anyway. You’ve spent summers, weekdays, weekends, school years—almost—in this home and it got to a point where you didn’t even have to knock. And if you did, then the door would always open for you because you had a key.
With a lively spirit, you barged inside—duffel bag in tow as you saw two out of your three best friends politicking on the couch. “Hey, assholes!”
Leehan paused in his movements, eyes widening just a bit before his jaw slacked. “You’re back…”
You dropped your duffel by the door with a now deflated look. “Did you expect me to stay in the woods for the whole summer?”
“Yes—I mean, no. No…we didn’t—no we didn’t. Right, Shota?” He turned to the younger, watching as he was on his phone—not even minding the interaction. “Dude!” Leehan snapped as he beamed a pillow at him.
With a thud, Shota’s phone hit the couch. “Yo—oh hey,” he looked at you with a smile. Standing up, opening his arms as he walked closer to you. “I missed you, Bun.”
“Yeah, at least someone did—ooh!” You grunted as Shota strong-armed you, wrapping his arms around you as he lifted you off your feet. “I missed you too, bro.”
He smiled at the words, “you smell like an airplane.”
Laughing, you wrapped your arms around him. Shota wasn’t always the brightest, but he was bright in every other way.
Shota, Leehan, and you all returned from your first years of college and though you didn’t get home right away—you were offered by your school’s writing club to go on a retreat with them after the semester finished. It was fun, enriching, and about five weeks. In a way, it was like summer camp for adults and it was nice to just unplug for a while after a hectic semester.
All three of you attended different schools. And while that was a hard summer’s end—you knew in some way it’d be good for you. The longest all four of you had been apart was a singular day since you were all seven years old. So eleven years later—after endless sleepovers, fights, makeups, robbing convenience stores blind, and late night phone calls—saying goodbye and seeing your cars go in different directions was the hardest thing you ever had to do.
“I missed you guys,” you said softly.
Leehan sighed, giving up his seeming distressed demeanor. “We missed you too,” he joined you and Shota as he wrapped his arms around you both. “How was everything?”
You were too enraptured in the comfort of being in the arms of your friends to realize that there was a third of your heart missing. “It was good…Learn-y, school-y.” Your feet still dangled in the air as you scanned the room; even eyeing the bathroom door for a moment hoping someone would come out. But knowing that it was early noon—Leehan’s little siblings were at day camp and his parents were working. None of them would be back until later in the day.
But even then, something felt hollow. Wrong. And you knew it when you only felt two pairs of arms around you. “Where’s Riki?”
Leehan’s arms stiffened first.
Not dramatically—just this tiny, telltale pause like his brain hit a speed bump. Shota let you down from his hug a little too fast, brushing his hands on his shorts like he suddenly needed something to do.
You frowned. “Hello? I said: where’s Riki?”
Leehan cleared his throat. “Uh…he’s, um…not here.”
“No shit. Where is he?”
Shota wouldn’t look at you. He kept glancing at Leehan like he wanted permission to talk.
“Guys.” You crossed your arms. “I’ve been home for ten minutes and you’re both acting like I asked you who killed Kennedy.”
Shota chimed in, “wasn’t it Harvey Lee Oswald?”
Leehan’s eyes didn’t leave you as he put his finger on Shota’s chest. “Lee Harvey Oswald and Riki’s…just not really around.” He shook his head as he walked to plop down on the couch.
You tilted your head in confusion. Eyes squinting as you had trouble connecting the dots. “What does that even mean? Did he move or some shit?” Crossing your arms as you approached him.
“We just—just drop it, man.” Leehan sighs. “Riki’s irrelevant.”
Your lips parted in surprise as you drew back. “Since—what? He’s been our best friend and neighbor since we were in the second grade and he’s suddenly old news?”
Shota interjected, “can you guys walk with me to the store? I want some chips.”
Without looking at him, you nodded to the door.
Shota tugged his hoodie on and headed out first, leaving you and Leehan in this thick, uncomfortable silence that felt wrong in a house you practically grew up in.
The walk to the corner store was familiar—same cracked pavement, same graffiti that had been there since middle school—but the energy between the three of you was off. Shota kept kicking a pebble like it personally offended him. Leehan jammed his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders tight.
Halfway down the block, you tried again.
“So we’re really not talking about it?”
Leehan exhaled hard through his nose. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
You snorted. “You’re lying. You’re bad at it. And you only get this weird when it has to do with some type of drama.”
Shota slowed his steps just enough for you to catch up. “Look…things got messy while you were gone.”
“What does that mean?”
Another shared look. You hated that look. It meant you’re not gonna like this.
Leehan ran a hand through his hair. “He wasn’t…he wasn’t really hanging with us much. We barely see him anymore.”
“So? We were away. He stayed back because of his stupid ass brother. We know that.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes.
Reo, Riki’s older brother, is heavily involved with a local gang—R12.
R for the family’s first initial. 12 for the street you lived on.
The kind everyone on the block pretends not to see but knows better than to cross. The name carries weight. Trouble, too.
When junior year rolled around, all four of you discussed college and looked forward to moving onto the next chapter of your lives. Shota, Leehan, Riki, and you all thought about attending the same school. Just fun, adulthood, parties, no rules.
But senior year happened and things got serious. Reo was all Riki had. Their mother passed years ago, father was hardly around and Reo had to sacrifice school to follow his birthright: the gang. The same gang everyone warned you about, the same one Riki swore he’d only ever be “adjacent” to.
It wasn’t a choice—more like gravity. Reo demanded more, and Riki got dragged with him. It started small. Doing quick runs, disappearing in the middle of sleepovers, seeing him with small bruises on his ribs.
While the three of you were filing your FAFSAs, Riki hadn’t even made his login yet. Because he foresaw it, he knew that it just wasn’t in the cards for him. Reo made sure of it.
“Man, fuck him. Who even cares…?” Shota rolled up his sleeves as he kept walking.
You shot him a look. “You care. Don’t start lying now. And don’t talk about him like that.”
He didn’t respond—just kept walking, steps quick, like he could outrun the conversation.
Leehan let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s more than just him going through that. There’s…other stuff.”
“No,” you snapped. “Explain it. Because right now you two sound like you’re mad at him for not juggling college applications while dodging gang members.”
Shota kicked at a crack in the sidewalk. “It’s not that.”
“So what is it?!” You snapped, throwing your hands up in anger. “Bro, I’m tired of the fucking riddles like come on! What the fuck happened between when y’all got back and now?” Like usual, your temper was starting to overcome you but you inhaled sharply before the heat ran down your neck and into your gut. “Why are you guys talking like he’s public enemy number one? You have five seconds before I find him myself.”
Leehan looked at Shota wearily, like he was asking for backup but knew he wasn’t getting any. Shota just shrugged, wide-eyed, like you handle it, bro, and suddenly the air felt thick enough to chew.
Leehan dragged a hand down his face. “Because he said some shit, okay?”
“That’s vague as hell.”
He tried again. “He told us something about you.”
You stared at him. “Like what? That I eat my toenails? That I punch idiots that take too long to get to the damn point? What?”
Shota winced like he knew a bomb was about to go off. “He told us that you two…hooked up before we left this year.”
Your mouth parted, breath catching. For a second, you didn’t even react—your brain was too busy finding scenarios in which it’d be solid to break into his house and strangle him while he was sleeping. Nah…the front door was too obvious. All of our houses only have one floor so maybe taking a crowbar to his window wouldn’t be such a bad start. Then the anger hit—fast, hot, bright.
It shot up your spine, tightened your jaw, curled your hands into fists before you even realized.
Leehan took one look at your face and actually stepped back. “Okay—alright—let’s not do the murdery face right now.”
“Murdery?” you scoffed. “Leehan, I’m being polite. You don’t wanna see murdery.”
Shota nodded too fast. “Yeah, she’s being polite, bro. Super polite.”
You didn’t even hear them. Your mind was still stuck on the image of Riki opening his stupid bedroom window at three in the morning to look at the street…only for you to be standing there with a crowbar like, hey bestie, remember me?
“Look,” Leehan put his hands on your shoulders as you heaved—a way of trying to push the anger below your feet. “We didn’t even believe him. We knew it was some bullshit and he didn’t tell anyone else. Just us and…just…” He pursed his lips. “Don’t worry, it’s contained.”
You shook your head as tears stung your eyes. Fists curled as you closed them and tapped your sneakers against the concrete. “I’m not gonna kill him.”
“Mhm, you’re not gonna kill him.” He encouraged.
“So you’re not gonna kill him?” Shota asked, a look of slight disbelief on his face.
“Not gonna.” You inhaled and exhaled smoothly as you opened your eyes. Letting the cool, Californian breeze run through your curly hair. “I’m going to chop his dick off with a cleaver and feed it to him.” You smiled as you backed up, booking it down the street.
Leehan didn’t even get to yell your name before you took off—full speed, booking it down the block with murder in your eyes.
“BRO—GO! GO!” Shota yelped, sprinting after you like his life depended on it.
Leehan was right behind him. “WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS! YOU CAN’T JUST—HEY!”
But you were already gone—cutting corners, hopping curbs, powered by pure betrayal and cardio-fueled vengeance.
By the time they caught up, you were stomping up Riki’s steps, fist balled, and Shota barely managed to grab your arm as you slammed your hand against the metal screen door.
“RIKI!” you barked, pounding again like the door owed you money. “OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”
The house door hummed a little as there seemed to be music playing from the inside. So loud that you don’t even think your banging made a difference.
“Dude, no—” Leehan walked forward, winded as he tried to reason with you. Shota grabbed him before he could advance further. “Just let her…”
Without another word, you forced the door open. The conversations inside cease abruptly. A huge group of guys, probably ranging from late teens to even late twenties, are scattered throughout the house as your view was clouded by thick, strong smelling smog. Through it, the opened door was able to let some of it out for you to see through. The living room was nearly trashed: beer bottles, ashes, wrappers all over the floor as your brows knitted tighter with every step you took inside.
The air was so dense you could taste it—like someone had hotboxed the entire zip code. The music thumped from somewhere deeper in the house, heavy bass rattling the picture frames and your last remaining nerve.
A couple dudes on the couch froze mid-laugh, eyes widening like they’d just seen a ghost with anger-management issues. One guy halfway through rolling a joint dropped the paper entirely. Another blinked at you through the haze, squinting like you were a hallucination he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Leehan and Shota hovered behind you in the doorway, both coughing like old men who’d wandered into the wrong nursing home.
“Goddamn,” Shota muttered. “Even my eyelashes are high.”
“Focus,” Leehan hissed.
You scanned the room—wrappers, beer bottles, someone’s shoe (just one), a chair flipped upside down like it hadn’t survived the last round of whatever chaos went down. And on the wall, barely visible through the smog, a neon light flickered BEER PONG CHAMPIONS, only barely hanging on.
Your voice came out low, deadly, and devastatingly clear:
“Where is Riki?”
The boys closest to you stiffened like you were pointing a gun, not a question. Their eyes darted toward the hallway as one of them lifted a shaky hand and pointed to the kitchen.
You didn’t even thank him.
You just stepped forward, shoulders squared, fury so sharp it cut through the haze better than the open door ever could.
Behind you, Leehan whispered, “Yeah, no, she’s gonna kill him.”
Shota sighed, resigned. “We can at least make sure it’s quick.” It was weird, kind of bizarre seeing you disappear into the smoke.
“Nuh-uh, I’m not going in there with those people.”
As you walked through and turned the corner to the kitchen, you saw him standing in a small crowd with a blunt hanging from his fingers. The moment his eyes found yours, they glazed over. You weren’t sure what exactly you saw in them. They were red, a little hazy and sleepy looking. But seeing you, blew it all.
“What the fuck is wrong with your brain?” You stomp over to him. “Huh?! I leave for writing camp and this is what I’m welcomed by?”
Riki blinks at you, clearly caught off guard by your sudden appearance. He quickly leaned off the surface as he put the blunt out on the counter—not caring if it left a mark. “Woah, hey—”
One of his other associates, a guy with some ridiculous fine line tattoos, cuts in. He eyes you up and down with a condescending smirk. “Who the hell is this chick?”
You turned to him. “This chick is Riki’s supposed childhood best friend. But I guess he wouldn’t know that.” Your attention goes back to Riki. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Disrespecting me like that to our friends?”
The guy stepped to you, his chest puffing up in anger. “Watch your mouth, little girl—”
“Alright,” Riki shook his head as he shifted his body to him. Shaking his head as his high was now fully blown. “You better watch your mouth,” his finger wagged slowly as it lightly rested on the elder’s chest. “Take that bass out of your voice, thank you.”
The tension in the room thickened, the music playing through the house seemed distant now as you watched Riki come to your defense. It wouldn’t be the first—a part of you hoped it wasn’t the last either. But the air seemed heavier than it did thirty seconds ago.
With a final sneer, the guy brushed Riki’s hand off. “Fine. But keep your friend under control, Riki. We don’t need any outsiders causing any problems.”
“I’m an outsider?!” You laugh humorlessly, “please ask—” you approached him angrily but before you could get closer, Riki grabbed you by the arm—his grip surprisingly strong. Pulling you aside in the kitchen “Yo, yo—calm the hell down.”
“Don’t tell me to—”
“Go outside.” He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t have to. It was the tone. Low. Firm. The same one he used back when you’d get worked up over group project partners who didn’t do their share. Except this time, the stakes were way higher than a C-minus.
You yanked your arm, ignoring how warm his hand had been. “I’m not going outside. I’m not done talking to you—”
“I am not having this conversation in front of them,” he hissed, eyes flicking toward the guys watching like it was premium cable. “Outside. Now.”
“Oh, so you can make decisions,” you snapped. “Interesting. Too bad you didn’t use that skill before opening your fat-ass mouth to Shota and Leehan.”
Riki’s jaw flexed. A muscle jumped. “Bro, you’re gonna get yourself jumped, and then I’m gonna have to deal with that and your yelling. Please. Outside.”
You scoffed, loud. “Cute of you to assume I wouldn’t beat their asses and yours.”
That earned you a few offended scoffs from the crowd.
Riki dragged a hand over his face, muttering something in Japanese you were ninety-eight percent sure meant “please, God, not right now.”
With a tight breath, he stepped closer—close enough that his voice dropped and you felt it more than heard it. “You’re in my brother’s house, surrounded by his people. You can’t just bark at everyone and hope it ends well.”
You glared up at him, heat radiating off your skin like you were a human wildfire. “Funny. Because you didn’t seem to care about the consequences when you told the guys we hooked up.”
His eyes widened—there it was. Guilt. Flashing across his face like lightning. “Out. Side.” He grit out. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
You stared him down, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like you were about to lunge first and think later. But the way he said it—low, edged, almost shaking—
Yeah. You knew that tone too.
So you spun on your heel and shoved past him, letting the front door slam behind you as you stepped into the warm air.
Riki followed seconds later, shutting the door softly this time. The music dulled to a muffled thump, the smoke-heavy air swapping out for something crisp, clearer…but still thick between you two.
He stayed a few steps away, hands planted on his hips as he stared at the concrete like it offended him. His voice was low, steadying. “What the fuck is wrong with your crazy ass?!”
“I’m not crazy! I’m angry! How could sit up with our friends and just—”
“What?! Do what?”
You shoved him hard but he barely stumbled. “Fucking dick! Forget that I ever knew you. I never wanna see or hear from you again! Just…” You hold up your hand in repugnance. “Ugh!” Turning to cross the street to go directly to your house, Riki catches your arm before you can make another step. “Stop, bitch—what part of ‘I fucking hate you’ do you not get?”
“Just let me explain! Look, before you at least try to walk out of my damn life—let me tell you—”
You nudged him. “Fuck off,” walking straight ahead and across the street to your house. Disappearing from the scene without another word. Riki groaned in annoyance, massaging his temples as he stood there. Torn between following you or respecting your desire for space.
But after a moment, he lifts the bottom of his black tank top, sighing into it before he’s approached by Shota and Leehan—both boys coming out of the bushes.
Shota emerged first, twigs in his hair, looking like he’d just barely survived a nature documentary. “…She’s alive, right?” he asked, glancing between the street you stormed across and Riki’s murder-face.
Leehan stepped out after him, brushing leaves off his shirt. “We weren’t hiding—we were…tactically monitoring.”
Riki shot them both a look. “You were crouched behind a bush.”
Shota whispered, “Tactical,” under his breath.
Leehan ignored him, eyes locked on Riki. “So? Did you fix it?”
Riki barked a humorless laugh. “Does it look fixed?”
Both boys assessed him. Shota: “…You look like you got hit by a car.” Leehan: “Twice.”
Riki dragged a hand over his face again, jaw tight, chest still rising a little too fast. “She won’t even let me talk. I tried to explain, and she—” he gestured vaguely toward your house—“walked off like I’m nothing to her.”
“That’s because you messed up,” Leehan said bluntly. “Like really messed up. Like…badly.”
Shota hummed. “Honestly, I thought she was gonna deck you. And I was kinda ready to join in.”
Riki kicked a pebble, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Please, I’ve been kicking your ass since the sandbox.”
Shota bristled instantly. “Bro, that was ONE time—”
“It was every time,” Riki shot back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You used to fall over if someone breathed too hard.”
Leehan waved a hand. “Yo, can we circle back to the part where you detonated your entire friendship in under thirty seconds?”
Riki’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The high was gone. The adrenaline was gone. All that was left was that tight ache in his chest, like someone was pulling each rib inward. “I didn’t mean for her to find out like that,” he muttered.
Leehan deadpanned, “you told us.”
“Yeah, because you’re my boys,” Riki snapped, pacing a short line on the sidewalk. “I didn’t think it’d turn into some weird telephone game while she was gone!”
“But you lied on your dick though. What type of cornball does that?” Shota shrugged obviously.
“I didn’t—” He inhaled, his fists curling up as he punched his palm—leaving it stinging.
Leehan sighed. “So you’re saying y’all fucked. She clearly holds the sentiment that you didn’t so…who’s lying?” He opened his hands, prepared to receive any type of clarity on the situation.
“It’s not even about who’s lying, how do I make her not angry enough to not want to punch me in the face?” He gestured to your house. “Bro, her temper is insane! She’s like a fucking chihuahua—”
Shota clapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes going wide. “Ooh, I’m telling on you.”
Leehan nodded gravely. “Yeah, we’re really gonna jump your ass then.”
Riki groaned, dragging both hands over his face. “I didn’t mean—I’m just saying she bites first and thinks later! She’s like—like—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Shota warned. “For your own safety.”
Riki let his hands drop, exasperated. “I’m being serious. She’s not gonna listen to me. She won’t even stand still long enough for me to get a sentence out. I—” He huffed. “I panicked, okay? I shouldn’t have said we—”
“Hooked up?” Leehan offered.
Riki shot him a dirty look. “Shut up. I know it was stupid.”
Shota crossed his arms. “Bro, she finished the year. She spends an extra few weeks on an isolated writing retreat. Missing time with us for whatever reason. She came home ready to hug you. And instead she got you with a blunt, a house full of gang extras, and a rumor that you two were bumping uglies behind her back. Of course she’s mad.”
Riki winced. “…Yeah.”
Leehan’s voice firm. “So start with the truth.”
Riki blinked at him like that was the most unreasonable suggestion ever. “What truth?”
“The real one,” Leehan said. “You said something happened. She said nothing happened. So which one is it? What are we actually dealing with here?”
Riki’s eyes flicked toward your house again—like the answer was written behind your window.
Shota said absentmindedly, lips pursed as he looked down at the dirt beneath his shoes. “She didn’t say nothing happened.”
“What?” Leehan furrowed his brows.
“She just got mad. She never said what did or didn’t happen.”
Riki walked backwards to his house, arms spread in vindication. “Hm. And you fuckers didn’t believe me.”
Leehan rolled his eyes so hard it was audible. “Relax, Socrates. All she confirmed is that she hates your guts.”
Shota pointed at Riki with a half-shrug. “Yeah, bro, don’t act like this is some big ‘gotcha.’ She didn’t say you were lying…but she also looked ready to kick your shit in.”
Riki dropped his arms, irritation sliding back in. “Still. None of you believed me.”
“Because your track record is dogshit,” Leehan said. “You lie about stupid shit all the time. One time you said you could backflip off Shota’s porch and you landed on his mom’s hibiscus.”
“Hey, that flowerbed recovered,” Riki muttered.
“No, it didn’t,” Shota said. “She still brings it up at family dinners.”
Riki threw his head back with a groan. “Bro, can we stay on topic?”
Leehan crossed his arms. “Cool. That means we’re back to the original question: what actually went down?”
Riki’s jaw ticked. He turned slightly, like the angle would help him dodge the question.
Shota wasn’t letting him. “Bro. We’ve known you since you had Lego hair. Just spit it out.”
A long beat.
Riki’s tongue pressed against his cheek, eyes dropping to the sidewalk. “I’ll catch y’all later.” He turned around fully to walk back up his steps.
“Wh—hey!” Shota calls out.
Shota jogged after him, grabbing the back of his tank like a mom snagging a toddler about to run into traffic. “You are not gonna hit us with the dramatic exit when you’re the one who started this whole novella.”
Riki yanked his shirt free with a scoff. “I didn’t start anything—”
“You literally did,” Leehan yelled from the sidewalk. “You started it with your mouth. And continued it with your mouth. And escalated it with your…actually? Still your mouth.”
Riki spun around, eyes wide, offended. “Can the both of you get off my jock? Damn!”
Shota pointed at him, calm and judgmental like an annoyed substitute teacher. “No. Because you’re being a loser. And I say that with love.”
Riki lifted both hands to his face, dragging them down like he could physically wipe the embarrassment off. “Y’all are the worst friends alive.”
“And yet,” Leehan said, stepping closer, “we’re the only ones who can save your dumbass from getting rocked by your girl.”
“She’s not my girl!” Riki snapped instantly, which absolutely no one believed.
Both boys blinked at him like he’d just said the sky was green.
Shota said. “And I’m Scooby Doo.”
Leehan pointed at the door behind Riki. “Stop stalling. We asked what happened. You clearly don’t want to say it. Why?”
Riki’s throat bobbed.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Shifted his weight.
Looked everywhere except at them.
Then booked it right into the house. Locking the door behind him with a click.
Shota and Leehan just stared at the locked door like it had personally offended them.
A beat.
Then another.
“…Did he just—?” Shota blinked.
“Yeah,” Leehan said flatly. “He ran.”
—
The rest of the night was a weird one. It felt like your college nights. Locked away in your space, biding the time until you were finally set free from the deadlines and expectations and able to leave. To be with your family but your friends most importantly.
All three of those boys meant something differently to you; and it almost made you worry about how your life would’ve transpired if you hadn’t been put next to them for talking too much.
Leehan was the diplomat. The water to everyone’s fire as the eldest one of the quartet. The one that spoke when you four were sent to the principal’s office for setting off a stinkbomb in Mrs. Jenson’s art class.
Shota was always in his own world. But he meant it for all of you. He was nearly impossible to hate to the point where if you were too mean to him, you’d start crying. Not only was he unreasonably peculiar at all times, he was the friend that you’d call in the middle of the night just to talk and he’d answer like he wasn’t mid rapid eye movement.
Riki was always very tricky. The rhyme was not intended, I promise. He was the wild card. The spark. The kid who lived like he had a personal vendetta against boredom. He’d drag you into trouble with a grin, swear you were overreacting, and then somehow sweet-talk the consequences down to a warning. He could charm adults, piss off authority, and get the three of you laughing in the same breath.
But he was also the one who always noticed.
When you were too quiet. When your knee bounced under the desk. When you smiled but didn’t mean it.
He’d nudge your foot with his sneaker. Or toss you a note. Or mouth a stupid joke until you cracked.
Riki was complicated. Not in the dramatic way—more in the “why does your chest feel weird when he looks at you too long” way.
Tonight he had you feeling everything except calm. You lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling like it contained answers or at least a refund policy for emotional tax. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that made your thoughts echo.
Shota, Leehan, Riki. Your boys. Your constants. Your headaches.
You exhaled slowly, sinking deeper into your mattress. You’d kill them before you ever lost them. Probably.
Just then, you nearly jumped out of your skin as you heard a sharp knock on your window. Turning your head to the right, you almost fell off your bed as Riki stood there—tall and looming over your window in a black hoodie.
He lifted a hand and knocked again—lighter this time, like that made it any less insane.
You hissed under your breath, scrambling off the bed and practically tripping over your blanket as you marched to the window. Sliding it up, you whispered harshly, “Are you out of your mind?!”
Riki blinked at you, equal parts guilty and stubborn. “You weren’t answering your phone.”
“So your next idea was breaking into my house?”
“It’s not breaking in if the window’s unlocked,” he shrugged, already hooking his fingers over the sill like he was about to climb in whether you liked it or not.
You smacked his hand. “Try it and I’m calling the cops.”
“You won’t.”
“I absolutely will.”
“You won’t,” he repeated, annoyingly sure.
He leaned closer, breath puffing in the cool night air. “Can you just—” His jaw clenched. “Let me talk to you.”
You crossed your arms. “Talk from out there.”
Riki shot you a look like you were being intentionally difficult. (You were.) “It’s cold.”
“It’s a Californian summer night, it’s sweater weather at best.” You shrug haphazardly.
“I’m anemic.”
“No. I’m anemic.”
“Same difference.”
“Go.” You lightly pushed him back and out of the windowsill. “Don’t you have gang members to go rob a bank with, hard-ass?”
Riki’s face twisted like you’d just accused him of running a puppy-smuggling ring. “Rob a—what?!” he whisper-yelled, gripping the window frame before you could shut it. “You think I’d rob a bank with them? Half those dudes can’t even do basic math!”
“Sounds like a personal problem,” you said, trying to pry his fingers off the sill.
He held on tighter.
You glared. He glared back, a standoff worthy of a Western, except you were in pajamas and he looked like a raccoon rifling through trash.
“Why are you still here?” you hissed.
“Because,” he snapped back in a whisper, “my name is getting dragged through the mud, my best friend hates me, my other two best friends think I’m an idiot—”
“They’re right.”
“—and you still won’t let me explain!”
You gripped the window and started lowering it—slowly, deliberately—like a villain pressing a big red button.
Riki’s eyes went huge. “Don’t you—don’t you dare close this window on me.”
You kept lowering it.
“Bro—” Down another inch.
“Are you serious right now—” Another inch.
He shoved his hand under the frame, blocking it like some tragic action hero trying to stop a garage door from crushing him. “I’m not finished!”
“You said plenty,” you replied, voice flat as drywall. “So we’re even.”
“I didn’t get to say anything!” he whisper-yelled, face squished awkwardly under the descending window. “Okay—I said a little. But not in the way you think—ow, that’s my knuckle—can you just—STOP—”
You paused just long enough for him to yank his hand out before he lost a finger.
He immediately slapped both palms on the windowsill, breathless, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “What is wrong with you?!”
“You came to my window at—” you checked the analog clock on the wall, “—one forty-six in the morning looking like you crawled out of a crime documentary and I’m the problem?”
He pointed at you, indignant. “Yes!”
You pushed the window down another inch. Closing it.
He groaned, “oh come on you can’t—” He watched you lower the blinds, your narrowed eyes the last thing he saw before you closed the curtains. “Please?” Riki sighed, leaning against the window as he called out. “Come on, open up for me? Please—”
The TV you had on only increased in volume.
Riki’s head thunked against the glass like he was trying to transfer his brain cells through osmosis. “Are you—are you SERIOUS right now? You’re gonna drown me out with The OC?!”
You didn’t answer.
Cue the theme music swelling louder.
“Boo.” Knock, knock, knock. “Bunnyboo, I know you hear me.”
Silence.
Another knock, faster. “Bro, don’t do me like this. At least yell at me through the glass. Throw something. Flip me off. Give me anything!”
You turned the TV up another two notches.
He pressed his forehead to the window again, palms flat, voice dropping low—half pleading, half warning. “Don’t make me climb in here. I swear to God, I will break in like a raccoon with a vendetta—”
A pillow smacked the glass from inside—the clanging of the blinds as it hit the hard surface.
He flinched. “…Okay. Message received.”
But he didn’t leave.
He stayed right there—pacing once, twice—before finally planting himself on the little strip of concrete beneath your window, sitting down like he paid rent there. Legs stretched out, hoodie bunched at his elbows, head tipped back against your siding. “Come on…” He whispered to himself.
He rubbed both hands over his face, dragging down like he could physically peel the stress off. “I’m gonna die out here,” he muttered. “She’s actually gonna let me freeze to death on suburban concrete. Damn.”
You muted the TV for two seconds—just long enough for him to perk up—before turning it right back on. He deflated so hard you could practically hear it.
“Wow,” he said to the night sky. “She’s evil. She’s actually evil. And she wonders why I lie awake at night thinking about—”
You whacked the window again with another pillow.
He jumped. “HEY—okay, okay! I take it back! You’re not evil, you’re just—” He paused, searching for something nice. “—temperamental.”
Another pillow hit the glass.
He held both hands up like he was being detained. “How many pillows do you have?!”
For a moment, he just sat there, breathing out shaky frustration, knees bent, arms draped loosely over them. The porch light cast him in soft gold, and for once he didn’t look like the loudmouthed, idiotic menace who’d started this whole mess.
He looked like someone who’d been losing his mind over you all night. And then—quietly, almost too quiet: “…Boo. Please let me fix this.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tapping anxiously.
“I didn’t tell them what you think I did,” he said, softer. “I swear. I didn’t make you look stupid. I didn’t—” His voice caught. “I didn’t disrespect you. Not the way you’re imagining.”
You froze behind the blinds.
He exhaled like the words tasted bitter. “I didn’t even tell them everything. Not the stuff that…mattered.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the roots.
“You think I’m out here playing around,” he said. “But I’m not. And I don’t know how to prove that when you won’t open the damn window.”
You didn’t move. He didn’t expect you to.
He tilted his head back against the siding again, eyes closing, breath leaving him in a quiet, frustrated laugh. “Fine,” he murmured. “I’ll sit out here all night if I have to.”
A pause.
“Knowing my dumbass? I probably will.”
Then, he heard movement from inside the house. Leaning into the siding did he lean up as his heart rate jumped. He stood up, brushing his sweats off as he walked around the front of the house. Only for him to be met with your mom—robe, bonnet, and sleepy-face in tow.
Riki froze mid-step, eyes widening like he’d just walked into a horror scene. “Uh…hi?” His voice cracked somewhere between sheepish and terrified.
Your mom blinked at him, hands on her hips, taking in the hoodie, the sweatpants, the midnight energy radiating off him like a storm cloud. “Riki Nishimura,” she said slowly, voice low but deadly calm. “What exactly are you doing on my lawn at—” she glanced at her phone—“almost two in the morning?”
“I—uh—” He raised his hands like a surrendering cartoon character. “I had to go to the store for Reo. I forgot my keys and now I’m locked out…” This wouldn’t be the first time he’s lied to your mom, it was just about whether she’d believe him. “I called him a few times and he’s not answering so…”
“So…you couldn’t go to either of the other boy’s houses? You had to come to my daughter’s?”
Riki’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He looked like a fish trying to talk its way out of being dinner. “Well—okay—hear me out,” he blurted, already panicking. “I would sleep at Shota’s but he snores insanely loud and the last time I did, he almost suffocated from the pillow I put over his face. And Leehan is entirely too particular about how I sleep like he wants the bed split right in—”
Your mom gave him a look so dry it could’ve dehydrated a cactus. “Inside. Now. Before I start asking real questions.”
Riki nodded so fast his hood nearly flew off. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”
But as he followed her toward the door, he couldn’t stop the tiny, hopeful glance he threw toward your window—praying you hadn’t heard any of that, even though he knew deep down…you definitely had.
He kicked his shoes off as he entered, “I promise I’ll be out—” he whispered.
“Shut up, you’re not a guest here. I love you, goodnight.” She yawned as she walked the opposite way to her room.
“Love you too, sleep well.” He whispered back.
Riki stood in the hallway like someone who’d just been adopted and arrested in the same breath. He watched your mom disappear down the hall, the soft shuffle of her slippers fading.
He took two small steps forward. Then froze when the floorboard under him squeaked loud enough to wake the dead. He saw your shadow moving around in your room from the small sliver of light that poked through the gap of the frame and door itself. His gut told him to speed up down the hall. To which he did—swiftly—before you could close the door on him.
But he beat you there, wedging himself in. “Gotcha.” He beamed, shimmying through as he closed it softly behind him.
“Are you crazy?” You whisper-yelled. “Coming into my house like this? Lying to my mom?!”
“I’m just as crazy as you are.” He unzipped his hoodie, tossing it onto the rack on your closet door. “Don’t act like you haven’t lied to Reo however many times—”
“That’s different. If we’re gonna be out late or something but—”
“Look, I don’t care about any of that. I came to fix things with you.” He stepped forward, ensuring you looked up at him. “Just hear me out…two minutes.” You studied him—hair messy from the wind, shirt rumpled, socks mismatched, eyes big and tired and a little frantic. You hated how familiar he looked in your room. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d slipped in after midnight.
“You get one.” You nod once. “And take off those dirty ass pants.” You sighed as you turned to your drawers. Scouring until you landed on a clean pair of black sweats.
With some rustling behind you, Riki stripped out of his pants. Revealing his black Calvin Klein boxers that you loved so much. That he knew you went crazy for.
“…Did you seriously just—?”
“What?” he said, way too innocent for someone in nothing but briefs in your bedroom at two in the morning. “You told me to take ‘em off.”
“I meant go change in the bathroom, you psychopath.”
He blinked. “Why would I walk all the way to the bathroom when your room is right here?”
You stared at him.
He stared back like this was the most logical sentence any human had ever spoken.
“Riki,” you said slowly, pointing the sweats at him like a weapon. “Put these on before I throw holy water at you.”
He snatched the pair from your hand with a tiny smirk—one he tried (and failed) to hide by looking down. “You always give me the soft ones,” he murmured, pulling them on.
“Well they’re yours…” you sigh, plopping right onto the edge of your bed.
He froze mid–pull, waistband halfway up his hips. “…What?”
You blinked at him. “What, what?”
He let the rest of the sweats snap into place, slow, like his brain was rebooting. “Did you just say they’re mine?”
You groaned, falling back on your palms. “Yes, Riki, congratulations, you own a pair of cotton-poly blend sweatpants. Don’t let it go to your head. So what? You’ve been here like a trillion times.”
But of course it did. You watched the shift happen in real time—his shoulders relaxing, his mouth tugging into that stupid boyish half‑smile he only ever got when he felt special.
He toed his discarded pants into a pile and padded over to you, the soft thud of his mismatched socks making him look criminally at-home in your space. “They’re mine,” he repeated, quieter this time. Like he’d just been handed a family heirloom instead of laundry.
You rolled your eyes. “Riki, don’t get sentimental, it’s literally the third time you’ve forgotten to take them back.”
He dropped down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “Still counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does,” he said, leaning back on his hands so his arm pressed along yours. “‘Cause that means when I come over…you expect me to stay.”
Your breath stuttered—just barely, but enough.
His voice softened. “And I know you’re pissed. And I know you’re pretending you’re not glad I’m here.” A beat. “But you said they’re mine.”
He nudged your knee with his. “Let me explain, Boo. Please.”
Your knee bounced, nerves bubbling up in the pit of your stomach as you looked down at your hands in your lap. “You promised, Riki. That you wouldn’t tell anyone what happened that night.”
Riki’s breath caught—not loud, not dramatic, just this tiny break in his chest like your words had clipped something vital. He didn’t move at first. Just stared at you, jaw set, eyes searching your profile like the truth might be written somewhere on your cheek. “I…I didn’t tell them in a malicious way.”
You turned your head as your anger bubbled up in your stomach. But he knew how to placate you. “No, no, no…listen. Look at me.” He gently grabbed your shoulders to turn you to face him. “Damn, you’re like a pitbull.”
You slapped his hands off your shoulders instantly. “Don’t call me a pitbull.”
“You are a pitbull,” he shot back, whisper‑yelling. “Small. Angry. Bites without warning.”
“I’m literally taller than you,” you snapped.
“You are not taller than—okay, you know what, that’s not the point.” He dragged a hand down his face, regrouping, then looked at you with that maddening mix of exasperation and adoration that made you want to smack him and kiss him in the same breath. “Listen to what I’m saying.”
You crossed your arms so hard your shoulders creaked.
He leaned forward, matching your intensity with his own. “I was just doing it for your protection.” He watched your face blend into confusion. “Not from the guys, from the guys my brother deals with.”
“Um…?”
“While you were gone, some of them were saying that they were gonna get at you when you came back. Obviously by that point, me and you already…” He trailed off. “And it was under wraps. But the way they were talking,” he shook his head, his tongue poking his cheek as he recalled the repulsive language. “I had to ‘claim’ you. Let them know you were mine.”
“I’m not an object, Riki.”
“I know, Boo. I know. I didn’t wanna put you in that position but I had to for the sake of those guys leaving you alone when you got back.”
Your brows pulled together, the heat in your chest shifting—still anger, but now tangled with something colder, sharper. “That’s not protection,” you said quietly.
Riki winced like you’d flicked him right in the soul. “I know. I know that. And if there was any other way—literally any—I would’ve taken it.”
You stared at him, trying to read past the excuses, past the dramatics, past the Riki-isms he wrapped himself in like bubble wrap. But his eyes weren’t dodging. Nor were they defensive. Just tired. And tense. And…a little fearful.
Your voice softened a notch. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
He huffed out a laugh—dry, humorless, one shoulder lifting. “Because you’d say exactly what you’re saying now. That I don’t get to ‘claim’ you. That you’re not a trophy. That you don’t need saving.” He added, “plus by that time you were at your retreat, didn’t have your phone. Was I supposed to send a smoke signal? Letter in a bottle?”
“It would’ve been appreciated.” You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I can’t stand you sometimes.”
Riki groaned, “dude, you’re so immature.”
“Me?!” You gasped, “I’m immature yet you fold under zero pressure and stutter when you lie?”
“Don’t do that. We’re grown now, I shouldn’t even be lying to anybody.”
“Right. So telling your groupies about our night of passion was sooo grown?”
He smiled, boyishly. “So you thought there was passion?” Slowing reaching his hand over to your waist before you smacked it away.
“No! I’m just saying that you’re a dick and never consider me for anything. Not me, Leehan, or Shota.”
Riki looked at you like you had three heads. “Are you—what are you talking about?”
You scoffed, “how did they even find out? Leehan told me that only he and Shota knew. Now you’re saying that—”
“I told them after the fact so they wouldn’t have to hear it from anybody else!” He stood up, “gosh, how low do you think I am? Like, do you really think I’m just some loser?”
Your head snapped up at his tone. He wasn’t yelling, but the hurt in his voice sliced sharp enough.
“Riki, that’s not—”
“No, because you’re talking like I’m out here giving press conferences about our business.” He pointed at himself, brows furrowed, genuinely offended. “You think I’d embarrass you like that? You think I’d embarrass myself like that?”
You opened your mouth, shut it, then crossed your arms tighter. “I think you do dumb things without thinking.”
His laugh was one sharp exhale. “Yeah? So do you.”
“That is not the point—”
“It is,” he cut in, stepping closer, eyes locked on yours with that frustrating intensity that made your stomach flip. “Because you’re acting like I’m some clown who doesn’t care about you. Like I’d run around bragging about us to look cool. That’s not me. That’s never been me.”
You faltered. Just a hiccup. Barely noticeable—except he noticed everything. “So telling people about us having sex on a summer night—”
“God, what do you not get?!” He put his hands out in frustration, “I didn’t tell anyone for fun! Or to lie on my dick—not that it was even a lie. I did it because otherwise, you’d have some weird ass guys pushing up on you and I can’t have that. For my sanity or your safety.”
You sighed dramatically, crossing your arms as you looked away from him. Turning your head away like you were a child.
“Look at me.” Riki said firmly but to no avail.
“Hm.” You shrugged as you crossed your legs. Your bare legs rubbing together over your checkered pajama shorts.
He shook his head. “Dude, you need to grow the fuck up and stop acting like a petulant child.”
You snapped your head back toward him so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. “Petulant?” you echoed, voice shooting up an octave. “Oh, wow. Big word. Did you eat a dictionary for breakfast or—”
“See?” he barked, throwing his hands up. “That! That right there!”
“What right there?!”
“You act like you don’t care but then you get mad like you care the most.” He pointed at you like you were a math problem he’d been failing for years. “You can’t even look at me without doing the dramatic little eye-roll-head-turn combo—”
“I do not—”
“You do,” he cut in, stepping forward, voice firm, eyes sharp. “You’re doing it right now.”
Your jaw dropped. “I am not—”
“You are,” he repeated, exasperated beyond mortal comprehension. “And it’s fine—like, it’s actually kinda cute when you’re not actively trying to ruin my life—but right now? Right now I need you to stop pretending you’re five years old and actually hear me.”
You scoffed so loud the walls probably shook. “Five years old? Riki, I swear to God—”
“No, seriously.” He crouched down a bit so he was more level with you, eyes narrowing just enough to make your pulse jump. “Grow. Up.”
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened.
You were halfway to telling him off when he added, annoyingly soft:
“I’m trying to talk to you. Not fight. Not yell. Talk. But you’re making it impossible.”
You blinked at him, chest tight, fury and embarrassment and something dangerously close to vulnerability twisting together.
His voice dropped low. “Stop looking away from me. I hate when you do that.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He leaned in, jaw tight. “And it makes me feel like you don’t care.”
That sentence froze you mid-breath. “…What?” you whispered.
Your heartbeat kicked up so loudly you were sure he could hear it. You sat there, arms crossed, shoulders tense, but eyes finally—finally—on him.
Riki looked back at you with an honesty that stripped every smart remark right off your tongue.
“Stop acting like I’m some villain,” he murmured. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.” He reached up, brushing a curl that fell out of your ponytail—behind your ear. “And with that funky ass temper, I can’t get a word in.”
You stare at him for a moment, tilting your chin to the side his hand was on as your eyes flit to the side. Like you were almost embarrassed to enjoy physical touch from him. “Riki.”
“Yes?”
“How long have you known me for? Do you remember?”
His hand froze halfway down your cheek like you’d just hit him with a pop quiz he absolutely did not study for.
“…Huh?” he blinked.
You sighed, leveling him with a stare that could’ve melted steel. “How long have you known me? Since when?”
Riki straightened, shoulders pulling back as if bracing for impact. “Since we were seven.”
“And in all those years,” you continued, voice low, “has there ever been a moment where my mouth hasn’t gotten me or one of us into some type of trouble?”
He pursed his lips in thought, his eyes seeming to search through the crevices of his brain. “Um…no not really.” Riki looked back from ages seven to twenty—trying to assess when your sharp tongue and impulsive actions hadn’t done them well.
“See?” You smiled in jest. “And you guys just accept me for me. This is who I am. And the fact that you hate it now all of a sudden—”
Riki rolls his eyes, frustration flaring in his chest. “No one’s saying we don’t accept you,” he retorts, his tone firm. “But just because we’ve put up with your bullshit for years doesn’t mean you can’t be held accountable for your words and actions. This isn’t some free pass to act like a brat whenever you want.”
“Yes it is!” You laugh, “because I accept you for all your shit. You’re like a diet version of me.”
Riki’s whole face twisted, “please. You’re the most mini-me of anyone I know.”
“Are you trying to son me?”
Riki laughed, leaning into you as he laid his head on your shoulder. “You are my son, you wanna be like me soooo bad.”
You shoved his forehead lightly. “Shut up.”
He blinked at you, affronted. “Don’t hit your daddy.”
You smacked him again.
“HEY—”
“Keep talking like that,” you warned, “and I’m putting you in the home early.”
He leaned back, pointing at you like you were the crazy one. “You can’t put me in the home. You’re my dependent.”
“Riki, I am older than you.”
“That’s what makes this so embarrassing for you,” he said, absolutely delighted with himself. “Imagine being older and still being my mini-me.”
Your eye twitched so violently he had to bite back a laugh.
Then he softened, just a little—head tilting, voice dropping. “Come on, Boo. I’m messing with you.” His shoulder nudged yours. “You know I don’t think of you like that.” Leaning his head back on your shoulder as he reached down for your hand. “I’m sorry, again.”
You tried—tried—to keep your spine stiff, arms crossed, jaw tight. But the second his fingers brushed yours, your whole posture betrayed you. Your hand didn’t curl around his, but it didn’t pull away either. It just…sat there. Suspiciously compliant.
You exhaled, staring at the wall like it might give you divine guidance.
“I know.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I messed up. I scared you. I made you feel played. I talked too much, I didn’t talk enough—I know.” He lifted his head just enough to look at you. “But I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear to God, Boo, every dumb thing I did was me trying to keep you safe.”
Your throat tightened despite every effort to swallow the feeling down.
“And I know you don’t like being protected,” he added, voice threading into something shy. “But you matter to me. In a way that makes it hard to think straight sometimes.”
Ever since you could remember meeting him, Riki had been your protector. And the worst part? He’d never even asked for the job.
He just…took it.
The kid who yanked you out of trouble before you even recognized it. The teenager who stood in front of you during every argument you started. The grown man now sitting in your bedroom at two in the damn morning, wearing your/his pants and looking at you like you were the whole reason he learned how to fight in the first place.
His knuckles grazed your jaw as he leaned in, nudging your cheek with his nose the way he always did when he was trying to make you smile. It worked—of course it did—your laugh spilling out small and helpless. “Your hero, your knight…” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. The smile that followed wasn’t cocky or teasing, but something almost…bashful. Like he couldn’t believe he’d earned the right to say it out loud. “Remember?”
But the word hero didn’t even begin to cover it.
He’d been a shadow and a shield, a tether and a torch—always one step ahead of whatever chaos you were about to fling yourself into. He carried your messes like they weighed nothing, shouldered your storms like they were summer rain. Half the time you wondered if he’d been assigned to you at birth, like some overworked guardian angel who accidentally got attached.
And you did remember. Every version of him. Every moment he’d stepped between you and the world like it was instinct. Like saving you was simply something he knew how to do—before he even knew how to save himself.
“Mhm,” you nodded—barely, quietly, like admitting it too loudly might crack something wide open between you.
His eyes softened even more at that tiny sound, as if your agreement carried an entire lifetime of shared secrets. His fingers slipped from your jaw to the side of your neck, feather-light, tracing the spot he always touched when he was trying to ground you…or ground himself. You could feel the tremor hiding in his thumb. He was steady for everyone else—impenetrable, unshakable—but with you? His armor always rattled just a little.
“Good,” he whispered, almost like he needed reassurance. Like he was afraid you might’ve forgotten who he’d always tried to be for you.
You hadn’t. God, you hadn’t.
If anything, the memories rose up all at once—him grabbing your sleeve before you stepped into the street at eight years old, him taking the blame for something you’d said at twelve, him pulling you behind him during the campfire argument at fifteen, eyes dark and jaw set like he’d burn the whole forest down before he let someone talk to you sideways. Him now, sitting inches from you, still trying to guard you from something invisible in the room.
He leaned in a little closer, forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice lowering like the hour demanded honesty. “I always wanted to be that for you,” he said. “Even when you didn’t need me to be.”
Your chest tightened—not painfully, but in that terrifyingly sweet way that told you he meant every word. “It’s not like I need you anyway…” You smile shyly as you nudge him with your elbow.
“No?” He laughed, “you don’t need me, Boo?” He beamed, wrapping his arms around your waist—pulling your side into him.
You shook your head, “nope—oof! Dude—”
Burying his face into your neck as he blew raspberries into it, he pulled you back flat onto the bed as you both laughed. You hit the mattress with a soft thud, breath catching in your throat before dissolving into helpless laughter. “Riki—stop—!” you wheezed, kicking a leg uselessly as he doubled down, arms locked around you like he’d been waiting all night for an excuse to tackle you.
He blew another loud, obnoxious raspberry against your neck, the kind that made your whole body jolt. “Don’t need me, huh?” he taunted, his words muffled against your skin as he climbed on top of you. “Say it again. Go ahead. I dare you.”
You tried to twist away, but his grip only tightened, warm and solid and stupidly comforting. “I don’t—!” you squeaked, halfway grinning, halfway choking on your own breath. “I don’t need—Riki, seriously—!”
“Liar,” he declared, without even giving you a chance to finish, pressing his forehead into the curve of your shoulder like you were some sort of pillow he owned. “Biggest liar I’ve ever met.”
You fought him for another second—maybe two—before your muscles gave out in that familiar way they always did around him. The laughter faded into a soft, breathless quiet, the room still humming with the echo of it. His weight settled over you, heavy and warm, like he’d decided this was his new home address.
He exhaled against your neck, softer this time—pressing a gentle kiss there before he raised his head. Nose to nose with you as you both smiled when your eyes met, his voice dropping back to something unbearably gentle. “How was school? You haven’t found my replacement yet, huh?”
“Nuh-uh…no one could ever replace you.”
His lips quirked—not into that smug little smirk he wore when he was winning, but something smaller, almost startled. Like he hadn’t expected you to hand him an answer that soft, that honest, without putting up some kind of fight first.
His fingers brushed your waist, thumb tracing slow, unconscious circles like he was memorizing the shape of you. “Yeah?” he murmured, the word barely more than a breath. “You saying I’m…irreplaceable?”
You rolled your eyes, but it came out ruined—too fond, too warm. “That’s literally what ‘no one could ever replace you’ means.”
His thumb paused mid-circle on your waist, the warmth of his touch lingering like a question he was scared to ask out loud.
“Yeah, but…” he said slowly, eyes flicking over your face as if trying to read something between your lashes. “You say stuff like that and then pretend we’re just—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Nothing.”
Your breath caught. Not because he was wrong, but because he was painfully, dangerously right. “We are nothing,” you said a little too quickly, a little too defensively. “Like—we have to be. You know how it’d look if anyone found out.”
Riki stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was green. “How it’d look to who? Our friends?”
“Yes!” You sat up slightly, annoyed that he wasn’t getting it. “If they think I’m sneaking around with you, it’s gonna make everything weird. I don’t want Leehan or Shota or anybody else thinking there’s…a thing. I don’t want a rift.”
“A rift,” he repeated, deadpan. “You think you and me laughing at two in the morning in your bed is gonna break up the Fantastic Four?”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.” He tugged you a tiny bit closer by your hip, eyes locked on yours. “Boo, we’ve gotten through worse. They’re not gonna fall apart because we—” He hesitated, jaw working. “—because we care about each other differently now.”
You swallowed hard, your voice smaller now. “I just don’t want them picking sides.”
His expression softened like melting wax. He leaned his forehead to yours again, gentler this time. “No one’s picking sides. Not unless you start picking fights again, and even then I’m still betting on you.”
You snorted, the tension easing just an inch.
He took the opportunity, slipping a hand up your back, grounding you with his warmth. “Look,” he murmured, “I get not wanting to make waves. I do. But don’t pretend this is nothing just to keep the peace.”
Your heartbeat thudded once, sharp and loud.
“Because it’s not nothing,” he whispered. “Not to me.”
“I know, Riki…Just—please?” You bring your hand up to his cheek, brushing his chiseled jaw. Though he shook his head slowly with soft eyes, you whispered—lips brushing against his as you mumbled. “Please, for me? Please…?”
His breath hitched the second your lips grazed his—soft enough to deny, close enough to ruin him. His eyes fluttered half-shut, like he couldn’t decide whether to lean in or back away before he did something stupid. “Baby…” His voice was barely sound now, more exhale than words. You felt it against your mouth, warm and shaky. “You know I’d do anything you asked.”
You nudged closer—not kissing him, not quite, just letting the shape of him press into the shape of you. Your palm was warm on his jaw, your thumb sweeping the curve of his cheekbone. His breath stuttered again. “But you’re asking me to pretend,” he murmured, eyes opening fully. “To pretend I don’t…feel this. With you. About you.”
Your fingers flexed at his skin, and he shivered.
“I’m not asking you to pretend,” you whispered back. “I’m just asking you to help me protect what we already have. Before anyone else gets involved. Before it turns into drama or sides or expectations. I just…want us. Quietly. Carefully.”
His jaw clenched under your hand—less anger, more restraint. The kind he only ever showed with you.
“And if I say yes,” he asked, voice low, “does that mean I only get you in moments like this? When the door’s closed and everyone’s asleep?”
Your throat bobbed.
“If that’s what it takes to make sure that we don’t ruin our group.” you whispered.
For a beat, he didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you, his forehead pressing to yours like he was steadying himself on the only thing that hadn’t ever failed him.
Then he exhaled, long and quiet, his hand sliding from your back to cradle the side of your neck. “Fine,” he murmured. “For you.” His nose brushed yours, gentle, aching. “But don’t ask me to act like you don’t mean something to me. Even if no one else gets to know yet.”
His thumb traced your throat, slow, deliberate. “I can’t fake that. Not even for you.”
—
The next morning
—
“Cousin?!” Leehan called out to his mom as she moved through the kitchen. “What cousin?!”
Mrs. Kim sighed as she chopped up vegetables, using the knife as a pointer to gesture to the basket of laundry on the counter that she needed her son to fold. “My friend from high school, Alexa, is sending her daughter to go to school here.”
With a roll of the eye, “school or university? Neither start for another month and a half.” He goes to fold some of the shirts in the basket. Tucking in the small ones of his younger brother and sister.
“She got into USC. I thought she could stay here, hang out with you and your friends. Just to get acclimated.” She says, looking down as she chops up a carrot. “Her mom’s staying back in Honduras where they live now and she just wanted to get out. See the world other than where she’s from. You get it.”
Leehan sighed, “we don’t need another buddy; and why do we need another person in here? It’s already crowded as is.” His little siblings breeze past him, pushing him into the counter as they giggle—running amok in the kitchen and living room.
Mrs. Kim slammed the knife down with a sneer. “No playing in the living room! Go in the yard!”
The two little ones scattered instantly, shrieking as they bolted for the back door. Leehan winced, rubbing the spot on his hip where a rogue elbow had caught him. “See?” he muttered. “Chaos. Pure chaos. And you wanna add another college student into this circus?”
His mom didn’t even look up as she slid the carrots into a bowl. “She’s not just any college student. She’s Alexa’s daughter. And she’s never lived away from home before. She’ll need support.”
“Support,” he echoed flatly. “Right. And by support you mean me.”
Mrs. Kim shot him a look that could level a grown man. “I mean all of us. But especially you. You’re the oldest. Responsible. Reliable.”
He blinked. “Mom, you asked me to unclog the shower last week and I nearly passed out from the smell.”
“Exactly,” she said, patting his cheek. “Builds character.”
He groaned into the laundry basket. “And what’s her name?” he asked, voice muffled in defeat.
“Xiomara.”
Leehan lifted his head like she’d just announced they were adopting a Bengal tiger. “Xiomara?” he repeated, slowly, like the name itself was a threat. “Mom, that sounds like a girl who walks into a room and immediately ruins my life.”
Mrs. Kim swatted his arm with a dish towel. “She’s very sweet!”
“That’s what people said about Riki before he started bossing me around,” he muttered.
From outside, one of his little siblings shrieked triumphantly, followed by a loud thump. Mrs. Kim didn’t even flinch. “You’ll take her around, introduce her to your friends, show her the area—”
“Mom.”
“—help her move in, make sure she’s eating—”
“Mom.”
“—maybe drive her to orientation—”
“Mom!”
Finally, she looked up.
“What?”
“I’m not a babysitter,” he huffed. “I barely babysit them.” He pointed out the window where one of the kids was trying to climb the garden hose like it was a rope in gym class.
Mrs. Kim clicked her tongue as she went to chop some garlic. “She’s not a baby. She’s eighteen.”
Leehan’s soul left his body. “EIGHT—Mom, that’s literally barely legal! I can’t be seen hanging out with a kid! I’m twenty! People will think I’m recruiting!”
Mrs. Kim pursed her lips, squinting her eyes as she clutched the knife tighter in her hands. No words were spoken as she tapped the surface slowly.
Leehan froze.
Not because she looked angry—but because that tap? That knife-tap? That was the “choose your next words like your life depends on it” tap.
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay. Alright. That came out wrong.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He gulped.
“What I meant,” he corrected quickly, “was that—uh—eighteen is…young. Very young. Like ‘still doesn’t know which side of the street has the bus stop’ young.”
His mother didn’t blink. “Continue.”
“And!” he added, voice cracking like a man under interrogation, “—and I am not qualified for mentorship. I’m barely feeding myself on time. I had cereal for dinner yesterday.”
“That’s because you refused to eat the stew I made.”
“It had mushrooms!”
Tap. Tap.
He winced.
Mrs. Kim sighed through her nose, the way women do when they’ve raised three children, a husband, and apparently now one extra stray. “She is not a kid. She is a guest. A guest who will be living under my roof. Which means she will be treated like family.”
Leehan nodded rapidly. “Right. Family. Like a sibling.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Perfect,” he said.
A beat.
“Except,” she raised a brow, “you will not treat her like you treat your siblings.”
He blinked. “Why not?”
“Because you terrorize them.”
“I don’t.” He shakes his head.
“I’m not arguing with you, son.”
“Fine.” He nods in relent. “So…where’s she gonna sleep?”
“Your room.”
The words landed like a brick to the skull.
Leehan straightened slowly, arms going stiff at his sides. “My…room,” he repeated, making sure he hadn’t misheard. “As in—my room, where I sleep. Where my stuff lives. Where I—exist.”
“Yes,” his mother said simply, drying her hands on a towel. “She needs a space that’s clean and quiet. And yours is the only one that makes sense.”
He stared at her, chest tight. “Mom, my room is my only space. The only place in this entire house that’s not—” he gestured around at the chaos, the abandoned toys, the scribbles on the fridge, the sticky handprints on the cupboards— “that.”
“I know,” she said, and her voice wasn’t sharp this time. It was steady. Unmoving. “Which is why I’m trusting you with this.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. The weight behind her words was unmistakable.
“She’s coming here alone,” Mrs. Kim continued softly. “No family. No support system. No familiarity. She’s walking into a country she doesn’t know, a language she barely uses, a school she’s hardly seen. She’s still a child to her mother, no matter how old she is.”
Leehan’s breath stalled.
“She needs safety,” she said. “And stability. She needs someone who won’t overwhelm her or talk down to her. At least give her sympathy.”
He pressed his lips together, throat tightening.
“And you,” she added, looking him in the eyes now, “are the one I trust the most to give her that. Not because you’re perfect. But because you’re my son and I raised you to take care of people always.”
Silence.
A thick, heavy silence.
He let out a slow breath. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll move my things.”
Mrs. Kim nodded, relieved—but not triumphant. “Thank you.”
He stared at the floor, at the laundry basket, at nothing in particular.
“…What’s she like?” he asked after a moment. Not annoyed. Not sarcastic. Just…trying to understand the person stepping into his life.
His mom paused, thinking. “Smart,” she said. “Kind. Quiet. More observant than she lets on. But she's a nice girl, you guys would like her.”
He nodded once.
Then again.
“Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll be good to her.”
“I know you will.”
A beat passed—the kind that settles into the air, makes everything feel more real.
“What time does her flight get in?” he asked.
“One hour.”
His eyes widened. “Mom—”
“Go,” she said, waving him off. “Take the car, I’ll move your stuff.”
He grabbed his keys, heart pounding as he jogged toward the door.
And as he makes his way out to the beat up driveway, he comes across you walking up his porch. He steps back, soft laughter as he puts his hands up in defense. “Woah…gonna bite my head off, Chihuahua?”
“Shut up,” you cross your arms—rolling your eyes as you resist a laugh. “I left my bag here yesterday. I’ve come to retrieve it.”
He nods affirmatively, brushing past you as he gently yanks a curl of yours on his way down the steps. “It’s in my closet.”
You reached down to swat his arm. “Where you going?”
He turns back, one foot already on the next step, breath still a little fast from the sprint out of the house. The sunlight catches on his face, softening everything he’s trying so hard to keep steady.
“Airport,” he says simply.
Your brows pull together. “Now?”
He huffs—short, almost incredulous—as if he just realized the timing doesn’t make any damn sense either. “Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Apparently I’m a morning person now.”
You blink at him. “Since when?”
“Since today,” he says, dead serious.
There’s no joke behind it. No smirk. He’s standing there looking wired, focused, too awake for someone who hasn’t even had breakfast yet.
You tilt your head, studying him. Something in his voice is different—quieter, heavier. “Family?”
He hesitates. Just long enough for the truth to flash across his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Kind of.”
“Can I ride with you?” You shrug, “I’m bored and I have literally nothing else to do.”
He jerks his chin toward the driveway, already moving, steps quick and purposeful. You follow him down the porch, your shoulder brushing his for half a second—a tiny contact, but he feels it. You can tell by the way his breath stutters before he masks it. Annoyance but patient in some way.
The car beeps unlocked.
He opens the passenger door for you without a word. You lean against the door before you sit, preparing to ask him something. But as you do, a voice calls out:
“Oi! Where are you two off to?”
You both turn to see Shota coming from across the street—backpack in tow as he bounces over. His dyed, blond hair shining in the beaming sun. “You two know I have attachment issues.”
You laugh softly as you brush your hair off your shoulder. “Ask your best friend, his mood is shot.”
Leehan sighed, “my mood isn’t anything, Bun—I just have to go and you’re making me late.”
“Late for what?!” Another voice calls across the street.
It was weird, yet convenient how your guys’ houses were lined up. The best way to describe it would be akin to a square and its vertices. Right beside Leehan was your house. Directly parallel to you was Riki, then parallel to Leehan was Shota.
Riki jogs down his driveway, one hand raking through his hair, the other shoving his keys into his pocket like he’s already annoyed at the world and hasn’t even reached the sidewalk yet.
He eyes the three of you gathered around Leehan’s half-opened car door. “What’s happening?” he asks, breath a little uneven like he’d been rushing.
Shota throws his hands up dramatically. “A betrayal is happening. They were about to leave me. Again.”
Leehan’s jaw flexes. “No one’s betraying anyone. I just have somewhere to be.”
Riki’s gaze flicks to you, quick and sharp, then to Leehan—reading the tension instantly. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Leehan mutters.
You answer for him. “He’s lying. Obviously. He opened the car door for me without calling me a dickhead. I’m concerned.”
Shota gasps like you’ve announced a national emergency. “Oh that’s new.”
Leehan drags a hand down his face. “Can you three—just this once—not be—”
“Entertaining?” Shota offers.
“Observant?” Riki adds.
“Inconveniencing?” you finish.
He looks heavenward, praying for strength. Then he jerks his thumb at the car. “Just get in. All of you.”
“Yay!” You and Shota cheered simultaneously. Riki smiled softly as he opened the back passenger door for the older guy to get in.
Shota slid in the backseat, putting his backpack down by his feet—settling into the seat as he fanned himself. “Can you turn the AC on? It’s like a toaster oven in here.”
Leehan makes his way around the van. “The car’s not even on yet, genius.”
Riki snorts, “move over,” he tapped the top of the van as he waited for Shota to shimmy to the other side. But before he could even put his leg in, a deep, raspy voice—diagonal from the driveway called out for him. “Riki!”
All four of your guys’ attention went in the direction of the sound. The birds chirped over the white noise of the block as somehow the sky clouded over. Reo.
You sighed, rolling your eyes as you turned your back again. Leaning against the car with your arms crossed.
Reo was already discussed previously. Not in any depth anyway because as much as he seemed to matter to Riki—he mattered to you as well.
As an enemy.
As an older brother, though, he was Riki’s sole caregiver and provider amidst their parents not being around. While Reo had to juggle being fifteen and taking care of his ten year old brother, he ensured that Riki was in school, was fed, and had what he needed to essentially have a normal childhood just as anyone else.
However, as Riki grew and started to demand (not literally, but metaphorically) the presence of their mom and dad—Reo didn’t know how to handle it. Couldn’t fathom or configure the idea of wearing so many different hats at once. Mom, dad, brother, nurse, personal wallet, cheerleader, chauffeur until Riki was sixteen, the list goes on.
Leehan, Shota, and you had always had the luxury of support by parental figures—something Riki didn’t have—but it was always afforded to him. Never did any of your parents turn him or Reo away for anything because they knew how hard their circumstances were. But no one dared to call social services because it meant that both boys would be lost in the abyss of the American foster care system and of course, everyone has heard such great things about what happens there.
If either of them needed food because Reo’s check didn’t clear—they got it. Christmas gifts. Clothes. Hot water. Anything in the world, those boys had it as long as you, Shota, and Leehan did.
But once Reo graduated high school (with a C average, just by the skin of his teeth)—he knew to follow in the legacy that his father had left him with—R12. Leaving him to stay in Freeridge and get Riki through middle school, high school, and everything else.
And things seemed fine. Reo was going to work. Participating in the gang dealings that both boys seemed to be familiar with but the older they got, the more the cracks started to show.
Riki learned how to be multiple people at once—a friend, support system, an advocate for all three of you…and Reo’s little brother, the kid everyone in R12 kept an eye on because Reo would set the whole block on fire if anything happened to him.
But it was a lot more complex than that. Reo ensured Riki wasn’t touched, ensuring he didn’t lose his respect. But something shifted once Riki turned fifteen.
He stopped caring about the sanctity of Riki’s youth. Disregarded everything that mattered when it came to his brother.
Riki had dreams. Ones that seemed small to others but too big for Freeridge.
And it was simple: make it out.
Since he was a kid, Riki had wished upon a star, tossed a coin into a fountain, closed his eyes extra hard during every birthday wish, wrote a million times under his pillow—for his entire life—the same wish.
To leave.
Not to abandon, not to forget—just to escape the gravity of a place that had never loved him gently. Riki wanted sunlight without bars across it, air without someone else’s name on it, choices that weren’t choreographed by a gang legacy he never asked to inherit.
Reo saw that dream as an insult.
Because to him, leaving meant rejecting the only thing he had ever been good at. The only thing that kept a roof over their heads. The only thing that made him valuable in a world that chewed him up at fifteen and spit him out as a man.
So when Riki talked about getting out—going to college, traveling, anything that didn’t involve the R12 sign—Reo didn’t hear hope. Just betrayal.
And that’s when the shift happened. No more rides to practice. No more checking if Riki ate. No more showing up to school events pretending he wasn’t bone-tired.
Instead—cold orders. Sharp warnings. A hardness that didn’t belong in a home but lived there anyway.
Reo stopped seeing Riki as a kid. Stopped seeing him as a brother. Started seeing him as a liability—someone who wanted to run from the very life Reo had bled to keep intact for him.
Riki never said it out loud, not to you, not to anyone. But every time Reo’s voice cut through the street, every time those R12 men watched him too closely, every time his shoulders went rigid—
You could tell. Because you knew these three like yourself. If you were an impulsive, neurotic, hotheaded chihuahua then Leehan was a pressured, ticking time bomb with oldest sibling syndrome. Shota was a mildly deluded individual that blocked out the negativity in the world by living by his rules. Like Riki was a hurricane contained in a bottle—soft and mesmerizing one moment, destructive and untamable the next. He absorbed everything around him—the chaos, the expectations, the danger—and carried it with a grace that no one else could sustain. But inside, that wish to escape, to be free of Freeridge and the shadows of R12, was a constant pressure, a weight that bent him without breaking him.
And you could see it in the way he flinched when Reo’s name was mentioned, in the subtle tension in his shoulders when someone lingered too long on the block, in the way he smiled a little too hard, laughed a little too loud, just to convince himself he was still okay.
He was caught between worlds: the world he wanted, and the world that had claimed him before he even knew how to fight for himself. And you—well, you understood that storm better than anyone.
The older brother in question jogged across the street. His gaze never left his little brother the whole time. When he finally made it to the driveway, Reo—now twenty-five—stood before you and everyone.
Him and Riki were exactly the same height. A nice six foot one. Reo’s presence hit like a wall, all angles and edges and deliberate weight. His hair, dark and cropped close on the sides, caught the sun in streaks of bronze where it had faded at the tips. His jaw was sharp, square, defined, with the faintest shadow of stubble that made him look older than his twenty-five years. Eyes like storm clouds—a very dark brown—hovered between calculating and exhausted, the kind of eyes that had seen too much too young.
Broad shoulders, strong arms, and a chest that filled out his fitted shirt made him look like he could carry the weight of the street on his back. Even his stance—feet planted just so, fists loose but ready—spoke of someone who had fought to keep everything together, someone who moved with both authority and quiet warning. Every detail about him—the set of his brow, the crease at the corner of his mouth, the way his gaze flicked to Riki first—was a reminder that he wasn’t just an older brother. He was a force.
But he wasn’t impolite.
He scanned the rest of you three with a masked smile. Bending down slightly, poking his head into the van—he caught Shota’s view. “Hi, Shota.”
The guy nodded silently, waving his hand as he put one of his wired earbuds in.
“Donghyun,” he nodded as he looked at Leehan—who leaned against the car with his hands and opened his palm. Hardly smiling but just enough to acknowledge the elder.
Then finally, his eyes fell to you. More like your side profile as you refused to even look at him. The last time you laid eyes on him was the day you left for college—so nearly a year ago. You hadn’t visited during breaks, money was too tight for you to come back and forth.
Watching him stand on the sidewalk beside his younger brother as the three of you all drove onto the next part of your lives was probably the most sadistic thing you’ve seen out of him. The memory was like a picture in your mind. Him, resting a hand on Riki’s shoulder as their eyes hadn’t left you. Like he was reminding him of what he never wanted to come to fruition for Riki.
“Bunnyboo…” he called out with a smile. “You look beautiful. I’ve missed you.”
You stiffened at the voice, the familiar tone threading through the warm morning air, carrying all the weight of his presence. That smile—something in it was the same as before, teasing yet measured, like he had rehearsed it a thousand times to keep control—but there was an undercurrent there, an edge of something almost vulnerable, something carefully tucked beneath the force of his usual armor.
“Hm.” You inhaled, arms tightening as you crossed them.
He probed on though, “you’ve grown. You still carry your Bratz dolls in your backpack?”
You scoff, smacking your teeth. “That was like fifteen years ago.”
Reo chuckled, a low, controlled sound that somehow carried both amusement and a trace of disbelief. “That long, huh? I feel like that’s the kind of thing that sticks with you forever,” he said, eyes flicking briefly to the gold, nameplate necklace with your actual name on it. The one you wore every single day since you were a kid. There was a softness in that look, fleeting, but it was there—an acknowledgment of the person you were then, the person you’d become.
You rolled your eyes, brushing a curl behind your ear. “Yeah, well, some of us grow up,” you said, trying for a casual tone, though your voice carried just enough bite to hint that you weren’t entirely relaxed.
He took your jab and let it roll down his back. His tongue poked his cheek as he turned to Riki. “We got business.”
Riki’s shoulders tensed, the familiar flicker of unease crossing his features. “Business? Now? At nine in the morning?” His voice carried a note of incredulity that didn’t quite mask the edge of confusion.
Reo didn’t look at him, didn’t even blink. His gaze was fixed, sharp, deliberate, scanning the block like he already knew every corner, every potential obstacle. “Now,” he said again, voice low but iron-strong. “We move fast, or it’s done before it even starts.”
You leaned back slightly against the car, arms still crossed, observing the quiet, absolute command in his posture. Every movement was deliberate, economical—Reo didn’t waste energy on theatrics. Even the way he stood beside Riki, that protective shadow, made your stomach knot. The tension wasn’t just between the brothers—it radiated outward, threading through the air around everyone else, a subtle, undeniable warning.
Riki exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Okay…” He turned to the three of you with a look of frustration. “I’ll see y’all when you get back.”
You watched him hesitate for a moment, shoulders stiff, jaw tight, before he finally gave a small nod. “Be careful,” you muttered under your breath but loud enough for him to catch.
Reo’s eyes flicked toward you, the storm behind them softening just a fraction, like he recognized the weight of your gaze. No words, just a subtle tilt of his head—a silent acknowledgment. Then he turned, and with practiced precision, started walking down the street, Riki falling into step beside him like a shadow, smaller but unwilling to be left behind.
The van sat there idling, warm in the morning sun. You pressed your palms into each, trying to calm the sudden tightness in your chest. The air seemed heavier, charged, as if the space around them carried all the years of responsibility, anger, and unspoken plights between the brothers.
Shota leaned back against the seat, muttering, “Damn. That’s…intense.”
Leehan just shook his head, lips pressed together. “Yeah. That’s Reo for you. Always been that way.”
You stayed quiet, watching the figures recede, knowing that once they disappeared around the corner, the street would feel smaller—and emptier—but the echo of their presence would linger, a quiet warning you couldn’t ignore.
—
The drive south to LAX was relaxing, you on the aux as some music played comfortably. As Leehan pushed the van down the freeway, you hummed along to the music as you watched the world pass you by.
But of course, silence was always short-lived as it pertained to your friends. “So, I assume you and Riki are together again?”
You turned to him with a flabbergasted, yet offended expression. “I’m sorry?”
His eyes widened, tightening on the steering wheel. “I said, ‘I assume you and Riki are hanging out together again?”
“Oh…”
“...as in, you guys aren’t fighting anymore?” He leaned back as he signaled to move to another lane.
“Oh…yeah.” You nodded as your heart rate simmered a little. “Yeah, we squashed it.”
“So what happened?” He said absentmindedly as he turned the music down a little so he could hear you properly.
You gulp, keeping your eyes looking out of the window. “Nothing. We just agreed to…chill, you know. No beef.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Leehan laughed, “you were at his throat less than a day ago and now things are just squashed? What actually happened between you guys? Is what he said true or not?”
This was the thing you hated about lying: the guilt of it. But the fact that you had to think of a lie, say it convincingly, then remember it was entirely too stressful.
Riki didn’t even want to keep this up. He wanted to show you off, hold your hand walking down the street, kiss you whenever he felt like. Not in the dark or behind closed doors within the confines of your rooms or the city’s outskirts. But of course, he was a simple man—and entirely too easy. Whatever it took to be with you, he’d do it.
But your fear of commitment and judgment superseded anything that either of you could want.
“No, we didn’t sleep together.” You said with finality. “He just said that because some of the idiotic R12 members were talking about getting at me. So he—” You used air quotes, “‘put a claim on me’ so that they wouldn’t try anything.”
“So why didn’t he tell us that he did that?”
You somehow reached a flow state. “Because he knows how you two run your fat mouths. It’s just better if everyone thinks the same thing, I guess. That way he doesn’t have to remember who knows what.”
Leehan’s brow arched so high it was nearly touching his hairline. “Mhm. Right. Because he’s soooo organized like that.”
You shot him a glare sharp enough to slice bread. “Can you just drive?”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes still on you. “Nah, because something’s not adding up. Riki said one thing. Shota and I heard another. You acted one way. And now this?” He motioned in a circle at your whole existence. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar,” you snapped.
“So you admit that you’re lying?”
You groaned, sliding lower into your seat until you were practically melting into the upholstery. The anxiety sat in your chest like a cinder block. Keeping a secret relationship hidden from a man like Leehan—who was basically a human lie detector fused with a nosy aunt—felt like trying to hide a fireworks show behind a napkin.
And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong. Your lies were getting thinner, shakier, stitched together by panic. You felt the guilt creeping up your throat—warm, prickly, accusing.
Leehan glanced at you. His voice softened just enough to unsettle you. “Are you scared of him?”
You blinked. “What? Who?”
“Reo.”
You laughed, actually laughed at how off he was. “Please, that dickhead has nothing to do with this.” You folded your hands over your stomach as you crossed your legs in an effort to warm them from the blasting air conditioner. “He doesn’t scare shit over here.”
“So what are you hiding and why lie about it?”
“Oh my god,” you groaned. “Bitch you are so fucking nosey!”
Leehan grinned like a cat who’d finally cornered a mouse. “Yeah. And?”
“And mind your damn business!”
“It is my business,” he argued, turning onto the main road like he wasn’t detonating your blood pressure. “Because every time you lie, Riki acts weird, and when Riki acts weird, I get dragged into some emotional bullshit I didn’t ask for.”
You clutched your chest dramatically. “So now I’m inconveniencing you?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even hesitate. “My chakras are weighed down.”
You stared at him. “You don’t even know what chakras are.”
“I know yours are clogged with secrets.”
You slapped his arm—not hard, but enough to make him jerk the wheel a little. “Leehan!”
“Hey! Assaulting the driver is crazy.”
“Being the IRS of my personal life is crazy.”
He snorted, glancing over at you for half a second. “So you admit there’s something to tax?”
Your jaw dropped. “I didn’t say that!”
“You said it with your face.”
“Shut up.”
He hummed, smug, fingers tapping the wheel like he’d solved a crime. “One day, you’re gonna tell me.”
“One day,” you shot back, “I’m gonna push you out of a moving vehicle.”
“Good,” he said, nodding. “Maybe the fall will knock the truth loose.”
“I wish death on you. A slow, agonizing death. But until then,” you sighed. “Which terminal are we headed to?” You gestured ahead to the iconic big white letters that indicated your arrival.
“Terminal B…” Leehan sighed as he leaned forward, inspecting the bustling airport and the pedestrians making their ways through.
You reached behind you to grab Shota’s backpack, shuffling through it for his bag of sour gummy worms. The owner of said bag extended his hand for you to give him some, not even speaking because he had his own music playing.
You dropped a few gummy worms into Shota’s waiting palm, then tore one in half with your teeth like a feral squirrel. “Thank you for your service,” you mumbled around the candy.
Shota gave you a thumbs-up without looking up, completely zoned out to whatever playlist he lived on. You swore the guy could sleep through a tornado but wake up instantly if someone opened a bag of snacks within a five-mile radius.
Leehan eased the car into the arrival lane, glaring at the chaos like it personally offended him. “Why are airports always like fever dreams?” he muttered. “Every time I come here, I lose five years of my life.”
“Who are we scooping anyway?” You say through a mouthful of candy. “An uncle or some shit?”
“No, my cousin—well…she’s not blood but…” He shrugs as he grabs a gummy from the bag.
You snorted, “I got you, that’s just how people of color work, I guess. Everyone’s a cousin.”
He nodded, “yeah, but this is my first time meeting her. Her mom and my mom went to high school together way back when. Then they moved and shit, now her daughter is going to uni here in the States. Or…will be.”
You furrowed your brows inquisitively, “where are they from?”
“Honduras.”
Your brows lifted in surprise as a smile hit your face. “Oh snap, look at Mrs. Kim knowing people. Mrs. Worldwide.”
Leehan snorted, shaking his head. “Please don’t gas her up like that. She already thinks she’s Pitbull.”
You laughed, leaning back in your seat. “No, because I know she be telling people she’s multicultural just for the fun of it.”
“She does,” he said flatly. “She told her nail tech last week she ‘turns up’ when she listens to reggaetón. Like who says that anymore?”
You slapped his arm. “Shut UP.”
He groaned. “I was like, Mom…you don’t even know who Bad Bunny is.”
Shota, still munching gummies with one earbud in, glanced up. “She thought his name was Benny.”
You wheezed. “Isn’t his name Benito? She was close.”
“Not the point.” Shota smiled, taking another gummy worm. “I just don’t get how…”
Shota’s joke faded into the background, but you barely heard it. Something in your chest shifted—tightened—like a knot being pulled slowly, deliberately, until it demanded to be acknowledged. Everything seemed like white noise.
You watched the crowds outside the car, people dragging luggage, hugging relatives, starting trips, ending them. Moving. Living. And it hit you—hard—that Riki should’ve been here. Should’ve been laughing with you all. Complaining about the LA traffic. Stealing Shota’s gummies and flicking his ear just because he could.
He should’ve been in this moment.
But he wasn’t. Because he was stuck.
Your fingers curled around the bag of candy, knuckles whitening. The thought rose before you could stop it, blooming sharp and aching in your chest. You didn’t say anything at first—just let the idea sit there, heavy, terrifying, obvious.
You didn’t even realize you’d spoken until you heard your own voice.
“…I want him out.”
Leehan looked over. “Who?”
“Wait, I didn’t even do anything…” Shota said with a frown.
You kept your eyes straight ahead. If you looked at either of them, you’d talk yourself out of it. “Riki. I want him out of R12.”
Shota sat up, the surprise on his face softening into something more careful. No jokes this time. No easy shrug.
The words kept coming, quiet but sure, like you’d been holding them back for years.
“I keep thinking,” you said, voice low, “about all the things he’s missing. All the things he’ll keep missing because Reo won’t let him go.” You shook your head slightly. “I can’t stand the idea of him still being there while the rest of us get to…grow. Move forward. Be young. Be stupid. Be normal.”
Leehan’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t interrupt. Neither did Shota.
“He had the best grades out of all of us in school. Joined clubs, made friends, community service, everything. All down the drain because his selfish older brother couldn’t see past Freeridge. But it’s time for me to be selfish, guys, because I want more. For him.”
You swallowed hard. “And I don’t know…maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s impossible, but I just—” you exhaled shakily. “I keep thinking there has to be a way to get him out. Really out. A way to give him a chance at the life he keeps pretending he doesn’t want.”
Shota let out a slow breath through his nose, like he was trying to process ten different emotions at once. “You’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he murmured.
You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.
Because once the thought crawled into your chest, it refused to leave—this stubborn, aching truth that wouldn’t unclench its grip. Riki laughing on a couch that wasn’t surrounded by lookouts. Riki sleeping without one eye open. Riki showing up to dumb little hangouts like this one, rolling his eyes, complaining about the snacks. Riki choosing things instead of surviving them.
You blinked hard. “I hate that I’m starting to picture him as a memory while I’m still alive.”
Shota’s jaw flexed. Leehan’s stare stayed glued to the road, but his knuckles had gone white.
“He’s not gone,” Leehan said quietly.
“No,” you agreed, throat tight, “but you know how that life is. You either end up in prison, dead, or both. And I don’t even want to think about either.”
Shota shifted, like the words physically hit him. “Don’t say that,” he muttered, but it wasn't a reprimand—it was fear.
You stared down at your hands. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Neither of them did.
The signs passed, blocking the sun for a moment—casting a shadow across the windshield, washing the car in gold every few seconds. Each flash made the ache in your chest feel sharper, more real, like the world itself was trying to illuminate a truth you’d been avoiding.
“I keep replaying stupid things,” you said softly. “Like him talking about wanting to visit a college campus. Or saying he wanted to see snow for the first time. Or—” your breath trembled, “—how he used to say he wanted to get out of Freeridge before he turned twenty-one.” You swallowed again, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “He says it like a joke now. Like something he already accepted he’ll never have.”
Shota looked out his window, voice barely above a whisper. “He stopped talking about the future altogether.”
That got you. A quiet, painful exhale left your lungs. “Exactly,” you murmured. “It’s like he’s already grieving a life he hasn’t even lived.”
Leehan finally spoke, low and certain. “Then we don’t let that happen.”
You turned your head, heart thudding. He wasn’t saying it like a fantasy. He was saying it like a plan.
“We figure out a way,” he continued, eyes still on the road but voice steady, “to give him a real shot. A clean break. Something he can’t walk away from, even if he tries.”
