RIKI'S POV
"So you basically hate sports?" Ava says, her voice dripping with judgment. She's eyeing me like I've just committed some sort of cardinal sin, crossing her arms as if the mere idea of someone not worshiping football or basketball is beyond comprehension.
I sigh. It's not like I haven't heard this a thousand times before. "I don't hate them," I reply, adjusting my glasses as I look around the over-the-top store we've ended up in. Everything here is loud—glistening mannequins, racks of designer clothes with price tags that could maybe anyone choke. "I just don't get the obsession, that's all."
She stares at me like I've sprouted an extra head, her lips curling in the faintest smirk, as if my indifference to sports has somehow confirmed every assumption she's ever had about me. "Of course, you don't." Her tone is cutting, but there's something in her eyes that's sharper than her words, like she's already piecing together some grand theory about me. "Nerds never do."
I can feel the corner of my mouth twitch as I resist the urge to roll my eyes. She's relentless, and I should be used to it by now. But there's something about her that makes me feel like I'm constantly teetering on the edge, as if she's always seconds away from throwing me off-balance. It's infuriating how easily she slips under my skin, how she keeps dragging me into this world of hers where everything is fast, reckless, and shiny.
"You know," I say, pushing my glasses up again and meeting her gaze, "just because someone doesn't live for touchdowns and three-pointers doesn't mean they're a nerd."
Her smirk widens. "You literally study quantum physics for fun."
"And you obsess over designer clothes," I raise an eyebrow. "We all have our things, Ava."
She flinches, and for a split second, something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe even hurt—but it's gone before I can fully register it. Instead, she laughs, a sharp, hollow sound that reverberates through the overly lit boutique. "At least my thing is, you know, social."
I suppress another sigh. It always comes back to this, doesn't it? This subtle war between us, where she's convinced I'm the socially inept geek, and she's the queen bee reigning over some glittering world I'll never understand.
"I don't need to be social to know that not everything revolves around how people look at you," I say quietly, more to myself than to her, but I know she hears me. I don't miss the way her shoulders stiffen, her fingers pausing mid-reach as if my words have struck a nerve. She doesn't respond, and for a moment, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, we're done with this stupid back-and-forth. But then she whirls around, her eyes blazing with something I can't quite place—defiance, maybe, or frustration.
"Why do you think you're better than all this?" She asks, her voice laced with confusion and accusation. It makes me tighten my fists a little bit more.
"Why are you in my life?" My eyes don't leave hers as I ask the question that's been haunting my thoughts for the past few hours.
Her eyes widen, but just for a second. It's quick, barely noticeable, and if I hadn't been watching her so closely, I would've missed it. But it's there—like I hit something she didn't expect. Something fragile. She recovers almost instantly, her expression hardening, her lips curling into that familiar, sharp-edged smirk. The one she wears like armor. The one that tells me she's about to deflect, that she's not going to answer me with anything real. "I'm simply bored."
I'm about to call her bluff, to tell her that "bored" doesn't explain the way she looks at me when she thinks I'm not paying attention, but the sight of a certain someone stepping inside the store makes my eye go wide and I curse under my breath, stepping away from Ava before I'm seen with her.
