Later that night, Reyhaan offered Aria a ride back to her hostel. She didn’t refuse.

The drive was quiet in the best way. The city slid past in soft glows—storefronts closing for the night, reflections bending in puddles. Inside the car, the heater fogged the windows slightly. Aria leaned into the warmth, her fingers brushing the zipper of her jacket, though it wasn’t just the cold that made her feel a little more awake than usual.

“Feels like snow,” Aria said, watching the sky from the passenger seat window.

“Too early,” Reyhaan replied. “Though I wouldn’t mind.”

“I like snow,” she said. “Just not the cold that comes with it.”

He glanced sideways. “That’s a contradiction.”

“It’s a preference,” she corrected. “Snow looks peaceful. Like the world gets quieter when it falls. But being cold? That part’s not romantic.”

“True,” he nodded. “I used to love it. Now… less so.”

“Why?”

“Studios,” he said after a beat. “Too many winters indoors. Hours blurring into silence. After a while, even the music didn’t fill it.”

Aria glanced at him, sensing there was more beneath the understatement. Something lived-in. She didn’t press. But she filed the moment away, like a detail that might matter later.

Then he asked, voice gentler, “Have you ever missed something on purpose?”

Her gaze stayed on the blur of the road. “Yes,” she answered after a while. “But only when I wasn’t ready for what came next.”

He didn’t ask for more. He just nodded.

And when they reached her hostel gate, she turned slightly, hand on the door.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Always,” Reyhaan said.

She stepped out, and before the door closed, their eyes met—quiet understanding passing between them like a shared note. Something unspoken, but unmistakably there.

She walked through the gate without looking back, the warmth of their conversation still settled around her.

Behind her, she heard the soft rumble of the car pulling away—a quiet sound that stayed with her long after the night swallowed it.

Saturday morning broke crisp and bright, the winter sun casting long shadows across the university court. The trio arrived bundled in mismatched scarves and jackets, coffees warming their hands, breath misting in the cold air.

From the moment the match began, they were unmistakably those supporters.

Maya cheered like a stadium announcer, full of flair. Aria clapped with steady determination, palms stinging with each round. Reyhaan let out sharp, practiced whistles that turned more than a few heads. None of them cared. Kian was everywhere on the court—sprinting, blocking, passing with focus sharp enough to slice through fog.

Aria found herself swept into the moment. Not just watching, not just being there beside Maya. She was part of it.

A year ago, when she’d tagged along to cheer, Maya had always been present—but focused on Kian, loud in her support, vibrant in a way Aria never resented but couldn’t quite match. Back then, she didn’t mind the silence she slipped into. But it hadn’t made her feel included either.

This time was different. Her voice didn’t echo alone—it folded into something shared.

Halfway through, the crowd surged to its feet. The gym pulsed with cheer, and from the back row, Aria and Maya could barely see past the sea of waving arms and bouncing shoulders.

“Great,” Maya muttered. “Now I know what ants feel like.”

Reyhaan glanced back at them and tilted his head. “Try standing on the chairs.”

Aria raised a brow. “What if we fall?”

Without hesitation, he stepped in front of her. His posture casual, but his gaze steady. “Then I’m here.”

Something quiet passed through her chest—not nerves, not surprise, but a kind of anchoring. He didn’t say it dramatically. Just offered it as fact. A gentle, sure presence.

She didn’t answer. Just stepped up after Maya, one hand on the chair back, the other gripping her coffee. The chair wobbled slightly under her. Reyhaan placed a hand lightly at the side of her waist to steady her. It was barely there, but it held her steady. Warm. Present. Enough.

From above, the view opened like a curtain. The court stretched before them in vibrant motion. They could see Kian darting between defenders, see the determined set of his jaw. And they cheered—loudly, shamelessly.

“Let’s go, rebound king!” Aria called, surprising herself with the force in her voice.

“Dominate, babe!” Maya hollered, nearly tipping forward in her excitement.

The final buzzer rang.

Kian’s team had won—barely, but clean. The gym erupted. A few minutes later, he emerged from the locker room, drenched in sweat and victory, towel around his neck, grinning like the light was coming from inside him.

“You three are a menace,” he said, still catching his breath.

“You love it,” Maya shot back.

“We require pizza,” Reyhaan said solemnly. “For moral support rendered.”

“Already queued up,” Kian said, leading the way as he slung his bag over one shoulder. “My place.”

They piled into his apartment, shedding coats and scarves as warmth hit them. Fairy lights blinked gently along the bookshelves, and the air smelled like garlic and oregano.

Then—

A soft, indignant meow echoed from the hallway.

Tuffy.

She trotted in like a queen returning to her court, tail high and gaze imperious. She paused in the doorway, gave each of them a long, silent once-over, and leapt onto the coffee table like it belonged to her.

“Told you she’d be waiting,” Maya said, scooping her up before the cat could protest.

Tuffy allowed the intrusion, but not before flicking her tail directly into Reyhaan’s face on the way up. Aria stifled a laugh.

“I think she missed us,” she said, amused.

“Or she smelled the food,” Kian replied, opening a box of pizza with a flourish.

They settled on the floor—plates in hand, legs stretched out or tucked beneath them. Tuffy claimed Maya’s lap like it was her right. Conversation flowed without effort—jabs at Kian’s footwork, collective groans about looming edits, Reyhaan mock-scolding Maya’s glitter-smeared phone.

Aria, sipping soda from a plastic cup, watched them through half-lidded eyes. Her leg tucked beneath her, the edge of Reyhaan’s knee just brushing hers. No one noticed. Or rather, they didn’t need to comment. It felt natural. Easy.

She didn’t say it out loud, but the feeling rooted itself quietly inside her.

Back in design school, she used to sit through critiques in rooms half-empty, presenting to professors who looked over her head. Questions had been met with nods, insights parroted. Her classmates took her advice freely, praised her instincts—until she needed help, like her usefulness had expired.

That memory used to haunt her. But now, here—in this apartment filled with mismatched socks, sparkling fairy lights, and the smell of oregano and static electricity—she wasn’t being asked to prove her place. She wasn’t waiting for a seat at the table.

She was in it.

They weren’t just teammates. They were becoming a rhythm of their own. A shared beat. A story told in voices that echoed back.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like a guest in someone else’s life.

She felt home.