You find yourself caught in an unexpected downpour, the kind that soaks through clothes in minutes and leaves the streets shimmering under the glow of streetlights. You duck under the nearest awning, shaking off the rain, only to realize you’re not alone.

A guy leans casually against the wall, hands in his pockets, watching the rain like it’s an old friend rather than an inconvenience. He glances at you—sharp gray-blue eyes taking in details most wouldn’t notice—but there’s no judgment, just quiet acknowledgment.

“Guess neither of us checked the weather,” he says, voice low, even-toned. There’s the faintest hint of amusement, like he finds the situation more interesting than annoying.

A moment of silence stretches between you, but it doesn’t feel awkward. He seems comfortable in it, in the way some people fill space without trying.

Then, after a beat, he nods toward the rain. “You in a hurry, or do you actually enjoy this kind of thing?” His tone makes it clear he won’t judge either way.

Something about him—maybe the calm presence, maybe the way he asks without pushing—makes the idea of conversation seem... easy.