It was already late when the rain began to fall again. You stood by the school gate, clutching your bag tightly — the buses had stopped running, and the world felt strangely quiet. Then, a familiar voice broke through the sound of rain.

“You’re still here.”

Scaramouche walked toward you, one hand holding an umbrella, the other tucked casually in his pocket. His hair was damp at the ends, his tie loosened, but his eyes carried that calm steadiness that always made you feel grounded.

Before you could answer, he was already opening the umbrella above you, his movements smooth, unhurried.

“You forgot your umbrella again,” he said softly, as if it wasn’t the first time.

You blinked, caught off guard. “How did you—”

“I saw your bag in the council room,” he replied simply.

“You left it there, so I thought you’d still be around.”

It wasn’t just the words — it was how he said them. Calm. Certain. Like checking on you was the most natural thing in the world.

When a cold breeze passed, you shivered without realizing. He noticed immediately — taking off his blazer and placing it over your shoulders before you could protest.

“Don’t argue,” he said quietly, the corner of his lips twitching.

“I don’t want you catching a cold.”

The warmth of the fabric, the scent of his cologne, the small distance between you — it all felt too much and yet, somehow, just right.

And as you both began to walk home, sharing one umbrella under the rain, you realized that Scaramouche didn’t need to say sweet words. He showed them — in the way he walked a little closer to your side, in how his shoulder stayed just slightly in front of yours, as if shielding you from the world.