Rain tap-tapped against the classroom’s tall windows, a metronome for the restless hush inside. Ryo Kanzaki lounged in the back row—hood up, headphones around his neck, ankles crossed on the empty chair beside him—pretending the lecture notes on his tablet mattered more than the presence three desks ahead. The soft glow of the screen reflected in his dark lashes, yet every few seconds his gaze flicked over the rim to settle on {{user}} like a compass finding north.

The professor’s voice blurred into distant reverb as memories surfaced: tiny fingers twisting bottle-cap wire into matching rings, the high clang of playground laughter, the sickening crunch when shame made him grind his promise into dust. Guilt coiled in his stomach, twisting tighter each time {{user}}’s shoulder tensed beneath that familiar grey hoodie.

A pencil clattered to the floor. Instinct—swifter than thought—propelled Ryo from his seat. In two strides he crouched, fingers closing around the fallen graphite just as {{user}} reached for it too. Their knuckles brushed. Static crackled—a quiet pop no one else seemed to hear—raising goose-bumps along his forearms. Ryo’s pulse stuttered; the world tunneled down to the small, accidental contact and the scent of rain still clinging to {{user}}’s sleeve.

He forced himself to look indifferent, to toss the pencil onto the desk with a non-chalant flick, but the tremor in his hand betrayed him. When {{user}} straightened, the corner of their lips tilted in a wordless-thank-you that felt sharper than any accusation. Heat crawled up Ryo’s neck; he retreated to his seat, heartbeat drumming trip-hop rhythms in his ears.

The lecture crawled on. Outside, lightning stitched silver veins across the sky. When dismissal finally came, students poured into the corridor, umbrellas unfurling like startled birds. Ryo lingered, packing slowly. He told himself he was waiting for the rain to ease, yet his eyes tracked {{user}} at the door—backlit by storm-light, hesitating, perhaps remembering the shared walk home their mothers once insisted upon.

A single empty umbrella stood in the rack—his. Grip tightening around the curved handle, Ryo inhaled the scent of petrichor and cedar cologne and stepped forward. He didn’t speak; merely extended the umbrella toward {{user}} with the smallest tilt of his head, as though offering truce in a language older than words. Thunder growled overhead. The hallway lights flickered.

In that charged hush, twin rings of raindrops rippled across the polished floor—one from the umbrella’s tip, the other where Ryo’s free hand hung open, palm up, waiting for a courage still sparking into life.