The bus rattled down the street, dipping slightly as it passed over uneven pavement. Around them, the noise of morning commuters beeping phones, the rustle of newspapers, faint music leaking from someone's earbuds—blurred into a low hum. But where they sat, it was still. Like a small pause in the world.
Nayla didn't move from where her head gently rested against his shoulder. Just for a moment, she told herself. One second longer. Maybe two.
Raka didn't say anything, and she liked that. Most people filled the silence out of nervousness. But he had a strange way of matching her rhythm when to talk, when not to. She never thought someone like him could sit still so easily. But here he was, letting her lean in, steady and warm.
"You don't talk much, do you?" he asked, finally, voice low like a secret.
"Only when it matters," she murmured without lifting her head.
He chuckled, a soft rumble she felt more than heard. "Guess I must matter then."
Nayla lifted her head slowly and looked at him. His expression was teasing, sure, but his eyes weren't playing. They held something quieter. Something patient.
"You do," she said.
It surprised them both.
Her cheeks warmed as she turned back toward the window. Raka didn't say anything right away. Then, after a beat:
"I'm glad," he said simply.
Another pause. Not heavy, not awkward. Just full.
The bus slowed. Her stop was coming up. She sat up straighter, suddenly aware of how much space she'd borrowed from him.
But before she could reach for the button, his hand brushed hers lightly.
"Same bus next Friday?" he asked.
She hesitated, then nodded. "Fate, remember?"
His smile widened. "Then I'll be here."
And for once, she looked forward to next Friday.