It's in her second week of classes that she manages to arrive to class early, an achievement compared to her running late for her first week. In her defense, the break between high school and college life managed to lull her into being really lazy and waking up at noon, a problem that took the dedicated effort of over a week to fix.

She opens the lecture room's door and feels the cold breeze of the air conditioning blast her face, a welcome respite from the ever increasing heat of the outside world. Her eyes scan the room- auditorium shaped, with three columns of four tables, each complete with three chairs, seating thirty-six total, plus the additional desk and podium for the lecturer of course. She counts off four other people aside from her already in the class. She glances at her wrist, eyebrows scrunched, reading off the time on her watch. 1:15 in the afternoon, 15 minutes before the class was set to start. She was a bit early, but not by much, a time she could spend going over her notes of the last session.

Walking to an empty seat she picked out to be the best according to position, she keeps her eyes trained onto each other individual on the room, trying to remember each one. Early birds tend to be serious about the class after all, and might be able to help her should something come up in the lecture that she didn't understand. The coursework wasn't especially hard, as it was a general course that was required for all students on their first year, regardless of specialization. She didn't think she had to take general classes in college, and would rather have preferred to only take her majors if she had a choice.

She skims over her notes of the previous lecture, and finds a disturbing lack of much detail at all. She wonders if the professor didn't really discuss much, or if she somehow lost focus midway. In her case, it might have been the latter, thinking about other things she'd rather do with her time than take a class she cared nothing about. The professor, she recalls, was old and seemed to drone on in a boring voice that echoed on and on in the hall.

She decides her attention was better spent on people watching. After all, one needed to know people to be at the top. Resting her cheek on her palm, she glances over the slowly filling room from the side, slowly recognizing who was worth even talking to, to her standard at least. A few choice individuals in mind, she settles her gaze forward instead, trying to pay attention to the old wizened man starting the lecture. Seriously, senile people should just stay at home, she thinks.

She spends the class alternating between taking down notes (the most important ones only, of course) and looking at her nails, trying to decide what color would go well with her hair. She has better things to do than listen to the droning of a dinosaur. When class ends, she silently observes everyone without saying much, and leaves the room when everyone does. It's in this way that she knows who to approach first, who knows who, and how to be on the top.

Soon, everyone in this class and all her other classes will know the name Miura Yumiko.

Eventually, as the weeks pass, she surrounds herself with her own clique, the best of the best in the know, people who talked her language, walked her walk. And yet every single time there's a faint thought in the back of her head wondering if she was making a mistake, if the Miura Yumiko in high school was wrong. And yet, she knows she has no other way of doing things.

She finds her spare time scattered in multiple shopping trips, restaurant and cafe sprees, and bouts of random karaoke sessions. Often times, she'd find herself coming home alone late, walking through the streets at night a welcome slow down to the rush pace her group could get up to. Today is no different, she thinks, strolling through the empty streets at night by her lonesome after a particularly intense karaoke.

She knows these streets like the back of her hand, which ones were lit, which ones she could cut through, a hundred or more hours of walking ingrained into her memory, and she does not hesitate to take the fastest route to her apartment. She lived away from home ever since college, a welcome alternative to having to explain coming home a bit late.

Weaving through the dimly lit back alleys with a practiced ease, she stops when she hears someone call out to her from behind.

"Hey there missy, you going anywhere?" the words slur, echoing from behind her. It's not one she recognizes, nor would be here at this time of night, and as far as she could tell, was under the influence of alcohol or drugs. She decides there's no use replying to someone like that, and starts walking away again.

Her heart lodges into her throat when the sleaze grabs her bare shoulder. The grip is firm, palm squeezing down while his fingers attempt to rub themselves against her bare skin. She curses herself inwardly for wearing a sleeveless blouse today. She feels horrified, violated, and wants to squirm away from his touch.

"Hey miss, you'd keep me company for a while, right?" She smells his breath on her neck, foul and horrid, raising the hairs on her neck. She opens her mouth to speak, yet finds no voice. She takes a deep breath in, tries to conquer her mind. She was strong, she tells herself, she can do better than this. Again, she tries to speak.

The refusal she gives in response is shaky, yet determined. She orders him to let her go, attempts to wiggle away from his oily grip. She manages to break free for a second, the fingers on her shoulder losing their hold, and she tries to run away, only to find the cold touch of metal pressing into her from behind.

She chills to the bone, feeling all hope and strength drain from her body.

"If you know what's good for you, you stay put, yeah little missy?" the man snickers, a sickly laugh mixed in with unhealthy wheezing. When he licks her neck, she feels the tears stream down her face. At her core, she feels wrong, she wants to run away, hide. The way he rubs her sides and arms make her bite her cheek, clench her jaw, and ball her fist. She feels disgust, the bile rise in her throat, threatening to come out.

In the moment, she thinks she rather die than subject herself to any more. In a last ditch attempt devoid of rational thought, she kicks blindly behind her, and runs away without looking back. The cold steel of the knife pressed to her back doesn't come, and she sprints away into the night, running on autopilot into one of the bigger, more lit streets.

She runs, the fear for her life fueling her body. She hears the footfalls behind her, fast and close, and yet not managing to gain on her. She keeps on running, her lungs and legs burning all the while. Her eyes blur, as she runs through the empty streets, farther and farther away from her original destination. She knows she shouldn't go home, she'd only let him know where she lives.

Her breaths come up short, her ears ringing in fever pitch, arms and legs growing number and number. She realizes, vision white, she's about to pass out, and the dread consumes her, revulsion and horror covering her whole body. She stumbles and trips on her leg, body flying forward, and finds herself struggling to come up with any last thoughts, only to find that the impact to the ground doesn't come.

Opening her eyes, she finds a firm grip snaking around her back and latching onto her shoulder, catching her from what would have been an inevitable fall. Lightheaded, woozy, and desperate, she manages to croak out the bare minimum between labored breaths.

"Help, there's someone,he's chasing me, help." She finally falls unconscious, the experience taking its toll on her body.

She awakens later in a bed, and takes a few seconds to remember what had happened. She startles and jumps, as it is definitely not her bed, and her brain, still stuck in the moment she passed out on, goes into overdrive, searching for a way out. The room is unlit, and a quick glance at what she supposes is the only window in the room tells her it was still night outside. She gets ready to flee, rising from the bed and standing on tiptoes as she crosses the room to open the door.

She stops when she feels something other than the floor underneath her feet. She thinks, knows, it's the squish of muscle and bone, and her eyes go wide in horror at the thought of possibly having been caught by her pursuer rising to her head. She freezes, something she knows is absolutely wrong given the current situation. She should be running past, opening the door and calling the police.

The person under her stirs, shifts to the side, and sits up slowly, groggy. The voice comes slow and deep, menacing to her ears.

"Lights, behind you."

In her stupor, she fails to respond or move at all, causing the person to stand up and position next to her. She flinches as he raises his hand, unbidden memories of her previous encounter in the alley flooding her head and making her close her eyes, as she realizes for the first time in a long time she's scared. She hears a flick behind her and then a small yawn coming from the person with her.

She's on the verge of a full-blown breakdown, tears in her eyes, when she hears him speak to her.

"Oi, it's alright, he's gone now." The voice is calm, and manages to sound disinterested and gentle at the same time. "Please don't wake my neighbors, I don't want to have to explain at this time of night."

She's hyperventilating, trying to calm herself down, coming down from the edge of screaming and shouting for her life, as she opens her eyes. There's a boy in front of her, tall and lanky, with dark hair and an all-too familiar face. She speaks, trying to find the words adequate to her situation. She finds the thoughts in her head too much, and decides to ask the first thing on her mind.

"Is he…..really gone?" she shivers, stutters, the endless thought of the alley in her head unable to be pushed out.

"Yeah. You're alright now. Mind settling down some? You look like you're about to keel over and I'm not exactly in the mood to carry you again."

She nods, returning to the bed and finding a seat. She quiets, heart still thumping in her head and brain still unclear.

"What happened?"

Again, she finds herself at a loss of words, and takes a minute to find the right ones. When she speaks, she finds herself telling the whole story from the start. What she doesn't notice is the way she slowly breaks as her story progresses, the way she shivers, the way her voice cracks and her breaths catch in her throat.

"I see. Sleep. You can decide what to do tomorrow. Whether you want to talk to the police or not is your business." he motions with a wave of her hand to her.

"I…."

"Sleep. You need it." He says with a dismissive tone, standing up to turn off the lights again.

"What about you?"

"What about me?" His hand pauses over the switch, head flicking back to her, holding her gaze.

She gestures to the bed, then at the apparent lack of anything else to sleep on.

"You sleeping on the floor or what?"

"You worry about you. I worry about me. You should be grateful, someone as great as me offering you a privilege to sleep on my bed." He puffs out his chest, raising one hand and placing it over him, a glorified pose meant to imitate dignity.

"Ha? That's so unexpectedly lame from you."

"Guess that joke didn't go over well huh? Well whatever, not like you'd understand anyway." He grumbles, disappointed.

The lights turn off, and she hears the slow footsteps approaching the bed, coming close but not quite. He lies down on the floor beside it, curling up into a ball on his side facing her.

"We could switch." She offers, slightly guilty of the current situation.

"I'll pass. I think I won't hear the end from you if you catch a cold sleeping on the floor. 'sides, I won't hear the end from Komachi either, letting a girl sleep on the floor." The last part is muttered, clearly not meant for her ears.

"I don't feel right having you on the floor. You went through all the trouble of helping me out after all. The least I could do is not impose on you." She admits shyly.

"Yeah damn right. Carrying you was so much damn work. You're heavier than you look. Good thing we were just outside."

The pinch finds his shoulder in the dark, making him recoil from the pain. Serves him right, she thinks victoriously, a nefarious smile on her face.

"Hikio, I don't weigh a lot at all, what are you saying?" She whispers, sickly sweet and dripping with venom.

"Woman, you do. I only barely got you in before the guy came barreling in through the corner."

"Care to say that again to my face?"

"I was saying it to your face."

Another pinch follows, this time to his side. Following the exchange, the room is quiet. She lies down to her side, facing him, in the similar way he's facing her, only separated two feet off the ground. It's another few minutes before she speaks again.

"Would it be weird if I said we could share?" She feels the color rising in her cheeks due to the embarrassing implications of the statement making her flush.

"Yeah."

"Are you gonna come up though?"

"Would that really be okay? As much as I would love to sleep on the floor, my back's actually killing me. And it's my bed after all."

She waits a few seconds. She's not one to be ungrateful and needlessly cruel, and the thought of him sleeping on the floor while she's comfortable, after all he's done, doesn't sit well in her stomach. She'd rather endure the short discomfort of sharing his bed than do that to him. She says yes, moving to the edge of the bed by the wall.

"Then don't mind if I do."

He plops onto the bed, his whole weight shifting the mattress underneath them. Suddenly, she's having second thoughts, mostly because he's definitely closer than she thought he would be. She can feel the warmth of his body radiating from the mere inches separating them, and suddenly she's not sure where her hands should be, hugging them close to her body.

"Hey, are you really sure about this?" He asks again, and now, in the dim glow of the moonlight, she can clearly see the light dusting of a blush on his cheeks, and how his eyes shied away from hers. She knows she's in no better state.

"Yeah." She manages to get the word out of her mouth, and without much conscious thought to it, she tacks on, "We've done worse, haven't we?".

The scene plays out in her head as if it was yesterday, and not months ago that it happened. She realizes at the same time he does, what her words referred to, if his wide open eyes and slightly open mouth, as if in shock is any indication. Once again, just like that night, she wonders what would happen if she reaches out to him. Slowly, he speaks.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He says, but doesn't turn away his head.

She knows what he's trying to do, that maybe denying the whole thing had happened is the best way to not remind themselves at this point of the awkwardness and in her opinion, stupidity of the whole thing anyway. For some reason, there's a pain in her chest at the thought of denying the event, but she decides to honor his decision. From this moment forth, she thinks, that incident is no more.

She watches him slowly close his eyes, hears his breathing even out, and realizes he's fallen asleep. She continues to watch, observing him, making little details in her head. She can't explain why, and doesn't know why, but it's vaguely interesting to do. When she finds herself slowly drifting off to sleep too, she puts her head on his chest, closer than she's ever been in this span of time, and mutters a soft thank you into his shirt.

She pulls back, closes her eyes, and finds herself completely relaxed as she drifted off into the darkness.

Author's note: Aaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I really wanted to write for a long time now but I got my eye infected and wasn't able to for a week, was really making me cry to even look at a screen, update came too long. Sorry for making y'all wait. Thanks to everyone who left a review/followed/favorited the story, really means a lot and I hope you continue to enjoy.