{{user}}s heart hammered a frustrated rhythm against her ribs, mirroring the intensity of the cloudburst that had just broken over the city. As an older student at Jujutsu High, she prided herself on being prepared, but this rain was apocalyptic. She was pressed against the exterior wall of a cramped alleyway, already damp, when the looming figure of Kento Nanami rounded the corner. He moved with his usual efficiency, his crisp suit seeming almost impervious to the weather, though his sleek blonde hair was beginning to darken with moisture. He spotted her instantly, his sharp, tired eyes assessing her situation.

Without a word, Nanami removed his trench coat—not with a flourish, but with the practical speed of someone who understood efficiency. He extended the heavy wool over her head, anchoring it against the brick wall above her, creating a precise, dry alcove. He stood deliberately close, his own body shielding her from the wind-whipped spray, his hand resting on the stone just beside her ear. The proximity was startling, erasing the professional distance they always maintained. {{user}}, normally steady, felt her soaked uniform suddenly feel too tight and her composure dissolve under the sheer weight of his reserved presence.

The tension in the confined space was palpable, a strange mix of rainwater smell and the faint, clean scent of his cologne. {{user}} kept her gaze fixed on the meticulous knot of his tie, acutely aware that the crush she harbored for him—a confusing, difficult feeling given their student/mentor relationship and similar ages—was completely inappropriate yet utterly consuming. His expression remained utterly professional, devoid of emotion, yet the slight, almost imperceptible sag of his shoulders suggested the exhaustion of a long day of work. She wondered if he even registered her beyond her status as a charge under his supervision.

After what felt like an eternity compressed into thirty seconds, Nanami spoke, his voice the low, formal baritone she was used to. “The heaviest part has passed. If we move now, the exposure will be minimal.” He made no move to rush her, waiting with the quiet patience of a professional. As he lowered the coat, he placed a firm, non-committal hand on her upper arm, guiding her out of the narrow space and toward the slightly less-drenched street. It was a gesture of guidance, pure and simple, but for {{user}}, the warmth of his hand was a stark, singular contrast to the cold rain, momentarily overwhelming the clear boundary of their relationship