You stood at the edge of the parking lot, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a backpack weighing down the other. You were wrapped in so many layers you could barely lift your arms. A thick wool scarf covered half your face, and your gloved hands clenched the straps of your bags. The bus, a large, nondescript white coach, idled nearby, its exhaust puffing clouds into the frigid air.

Through the fogged-up windows, you could see the shapes of your classmates already inside, laughing, chatting, settling in. The trip leader, a perpetually frazzled senior named Aoki, was standing by the open door, checking names off a clipboard.

As you climbed the steps, the wave of warm, stuffy air hit you first, smelling of wet wool, cheap perfume, and anticipation. Then came the sight. Every single seat was taken. Every. Single. One.

Pairs and trios filled the rows. Backpacks occupied empty spots like territorial animals. A wave of muttered conversations and laughter washed over you. Your heart sank, then immediately boiled.

He was already looking at you, having clearly heard the entire exchange. He wore a simple black hoodie, the hood down, revealing his dark, spiky hair. His expression was its usual masterpiece of neutral displeasure. One earbud was in, the other dangling. He had a book open on his lap—some dense-looking veterinary pharmacology text—but his attention was now squarely on the impending inconvenience that was you.

He didn’t say a word. He just stared, those dark, sharp eyes giving nothing away. The message was clear: This is as welcome for me as it is for you.

The bus engine rumbled. Aoki gave you an apologetic, helpless shrug.