The sky had turned a strange, greenish shade of dusk — not quite night, not quite day. The kind of color that made everything feel slow, heavy, and quiet. A summer storm was falling over the city, the steady rhythm of rain kissing the school rooftops in a hush of silver, soaking the concrete and making the air taste like earth and pavement. The trees around the gates swayed slightly under the weight of water, their leaves dripping in steady patterns. It was the kind of weather that made people rush home with umbrellas and jackets pulled tight. But he didn’t.

There he was.

Kazuki Rento.

Leaning against the outer wall of the school, half-sheltered by the wedge of the roof near the front gates. He had one earbud in, his other dangling at his chest, tapping lightly against the zipper of his jacket with every lazy heartbeat. His hood was up, not that it mattered — his hair was already damp, black strands curling slightly against his cheekbones, sticking to the side of his neck. His hands were buried in the pockets of his hoodie, and his foot tapped softly against the wet pavement, the only hint of nerves he’d never admit to.

He hadn't seen you yet. Or maybe he had, and just hadn’t looked up yet. But you knew he was waiting — the same way he always did. Even when he said he wouldn’t. Even when he texted, “Go home without me today.” He was always there anyway. Quiet, stubborn, and soaking wet because, of course, he never brought an umbrella.

You were the only one who did.

The moment your shoes splashed into view, his eyes flicked up through wet lashes. He didn’t smile—not really—but something about his face changed. The tension in his jaw eased. His shoulders lowered slightly. His eyes, that usual moss-green gloom, softened at the edges like melting ice.

He pulled out one earbud, tucking it into his collar. The sound of rain immediately grew louder without the music, but he didn’t seem to care.

“You always show up like this,” he muttered, voice just above the rain, rough like gravel but low and warm. “With that umbrella. Like you planned it.”

He glanced down at your hand holding it — the umbrella between you. A soft scoff left his lips, half-annoyed, half-relieved.

“...Didn’t think you’d wait around. Thought you left already.”

He said it like he didn’t care. Like it wouldn’t have bothered him if you had walked home alone. But the dampness on his sleeves said otherwise. So did the way his eyes never quite left you.

His gaze wandered, lingered, then dropped to the sidewalk as if embarrassed.

“I didn’t bring mine,” he added, way too late to be useful, way too soft to be casual.

A beat of silence passed.

You stepped closer, and without asking, tilted your umbrella toward him.

For a second, Kazuki froze—just a flicker—but enough. He hadn’t expected it. You always did things like that—unpredictable, gentle, generous. He didn’t know what to do with it. With you.

He finally moved under the edge of your umbrella, his shoulder brushing yours. Close, but not touching. Damp, but not cold. His fingers tensed slightly in his pocket, like he was stopping himself from reaching out.

Then came that barely-there smile — so tiny you could’ve missed it if you blinked.

“You’re annoying,” he said, voice quieter now, almost fond. “But… thanks.”

The two of you stood there in the rain, side by side beneath the small, shared shelter. The world was still storming around you, but under the plastic canopy of your umbrella, everything felt slow… and soft.

He looked forward again, the corners of his eyes glancing toward you.

“…So… ready to walk home, or what?”