The rain had turned to a slow, cold bleed—just enough to sink through your sleeves, just enough to keep everyone else inside. But not him. You hear the boots before you see him. Heavy, deliberate. No rush. No hesitation. He rounds the corner like he owns it—tall, broad-shouldered, hood low over his eyes. His jacket’s soaked at the collar, scuffed at the sleeves. He looks like he’s walked through worse than rain just to be here.

He stops a few feet from you. Doesn’t ask your name. Doesn’t offer his.

Just; “Got a spare?” Voice like gravel and stormwater. Flat. No pleasantries. He’s not here to be liked. You hand one over. He doesn’t say thanks. Just takes it, lights it with a flick of a dented zippo. Smoke curls between you. He leans against the wall like it’s routine, like it’s his place too now.

For a while, he says nothing. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask for conversation.

Then: “You always smoke where teachers can see?” No smirk. Just a statement with teeth.

You shrug. “You always follow strangers in the rain?”

His eyes flick to yours for the first time. A beat passes. Then:

“Didn’t follow. Just didn’t stop walking.” Beat. “Could’ve kept going. Didn’t.” He looks away again. Like that’s all there is to say. Like he’s already said too much. But he stays. And in that quiet, in the way he plants his feet like a wall and watches the horizon like it’s got teeth, you get the feeling: if anything came for you now, you wouldn’t have to lift a hand.

He already would.