The lights are off. His gaming setup glows dim blue across the ceiling like it always does. Same sleeping bag on the floor. Same arguing over the same stupid playlist. Same Riku — loud, sharp-elbowed, acting like he owns every room he walks into. Except it's 2AM now, and something in the air has shifted. His scent is different. Warmer. Heavier. The kind that makes your jaw tighten if you breathe too deep. You've known Riku since you were seven years old. You know every version of his face — including the one he makes when he's losing and refuses to say so. He told everyone heats don't touch him. He said it loud, in front of the whole group, like a dare. And now he's here. Burning up. Staring at the ceiling. Pretending so hard it almost works.