As the semester wore on, the mood at school thickened — not with drama, but with pressure. Final exams loomed like storm clouds, heavy and inescapable. The library filled with hunched shoulders and whispered equations. The cafeteria grew quieter, laughter replaced by flashcards and caffeine.
Even Kael stopped flirting long enough to scribble notes in a panic. He still sat with Eli and Riven at lunch, but his jokes were fewer, his gaze more distant. He'd glance at Eli sometimes — not with longing, but with something softer. Acceptance, maybe. Or quiet hope.
Eli barely noticed. His world had narrowed to textbooks and tension. And Riven.
Eli's room became a refuge.
The bed was no longer for sleeping — it was a desk, a couch, a battlefield. Textbooks sprawled across the sheets, highlighters bleeding into margins like veins. The air smelled of tea leaves and graphite, and the soft hum of lo-fi music filled the space like a blanket.
Riven always brought snacks — dried mango, chocolate-covered almonds, salty crackers. Eli always made tea — chamomile when they needed calm, green when they needed focus.
They studied until their eyes blurred, heads bowed close, shoulders brushing. Sometimes they quizzed each other, voices low and rhythmic. Sometimes they just lay back, letting the quiet settle between them like dust.
There were no declarations. No confessions. Just the steady rhythm of shared breath and mutual survival.
One night, Eli broke.
It wasn't dramatic. No shouting. No tears. Just a quiet collapse — his body folding onto the floor, back against the bed, hands tangled in his hair.
"I can't remember anything," he whispered. "It's all just noise."
Riven didn't speak. He sat beside him, thigh pressed to Eli's, and passed him a cookie.
Eli stared at it, then laughed — a broken, tired sound. "You think sugar fixes everything?"
Riven shrugged. "It helps."
They didn't study that night. They lay side by side on the bed, whispering facts like lullabies, letting the closeness soothe the ache. Eli recited biology terms in a sleepy voice. Riven murmured history dates like poetry.
Their fingers touched. Their foreheads almost did.
It became a habit.
Riven stopped standing at the window like a ghost. He climbed through quietly now, the creak of the frame barely audible, shedding his hoodie with practiced ease. Eli would be waiting — sometimes sitting cross-legged on the bed, sometimes already curled beneath the covers, pretending to read.
At first, it was tentative. Riven lay stiffly on top of the blanket, his body angled away, as if unsure how much space he was allowed to take. Eli didn't say anything. Just slid a pillow closer. Left the blanket folded open.
Over time, the distance shrank.
Riven slipped beneath the covers. Eli stopped pretending.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to. The silence between them was soft, like breath against skin.
Eli's parents thought Riven left after dinner. Riven's parents assumed he was home. But in truth, he was here — where the air was warm, where Eli's heartbeat steadied his own.
Some nights, Eli would wake to find Riven watching him — not from across the room, but from inches away. His eyes soft. His hand resting lightly on Eli's chest, as if to reassure himself that Eli was still there. His thumb would move, just slightly, tracing the rhythm of Eli's breath.
Other nights, Riven fell asleep first, curled toward Eli like he was seeking shelter. Eli would lie awake, listening to Riven's breathing — slow, uneven, then steady. He memorized the shape of Riven's silhouette in the dark, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the way his fingers twitched in sleep like he was reaching for something.
Sometimes Eli would reach back.
They never talked about it. About why Riven came. About what it meant. But the silence between them was full — of comfort, of longing, of something neither of them dared name.
And when Eli whispered, "I'm not going anywhere,"
Riven would nod, eyes closing. "I know."
But sometimes, Eli wondered if Riven needed to hear it every night — just to believe it was still true.
Exam week arrived like a wave — relentless and cold.
The school felt different. Students moved like ghosts through the halls, clutching notes, muttering formulas under their breath. The walls seemed quieter, the air heavier. Even the teachers spoke in hushed tones, as if afraid to disturb the fragile focus hanging over everything.
Eli felt the pressure in his bones. His stomach twisted every morning. His hands trembled when he opened his notebook. But he also felt something else: steadiness.
Riven walked him to every exam.
He didn't hover. Didn't fuss. Just walked beside Eli, hoodie pulled low, earbuds in, his presence quiet but grounding. He waited outside the classroom, sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall, eyes closed like he was meditating.
Before each test, Riven would press something into Eli's hand — a snack, a folded note, a small object Eli didn't know he needed until he held it.
A chocolate square. A smooth stone. A paper crane.
"You've got this," he'd say, voice barely above a whisper.
Eli would nod, heart thudding. "Stay close."
"Always."
Kael gave him a quiet thumbs-up from across the room. No jokes. No teasing. Just solidarity — a silent gesture that said, I see you. I'm rooting for you.
And when Eli sat down to write, his mind didn't spiral. It settled. Because he knew — when the day ended, Riven would be waiting. With snacks. With tea. With silence that felt like safety.
And when they walked home together, Eli's fingers would brush Riven's, just once. Not enough to be noticed. Just enough to feel real.