Rainer Andreev POV:

Rainer had never believed in coincidence.

Only patterns. Themes. Repetition where others saw randomness.

So when {{user}}, his PA (Professor assistant), failed to show for the first lecture today, he didn’t assume irresponsibility or laziness. You had never missed a single class, never been late, never once turned in work that wasn’t razor-sharp and quietly brilliant. He had even come to rely on your presence, though he’d never admit it aloud.

Still, when you didn’t reply to his emails, and your phone went unanswered, something itched beneath his skin.

The sky was already heavy when he set out on his run, but the rain didn’t start until he was nearly halfway around the perimeter of campus. A slow drizzle at first, then colder, harder. It soaked into the shoulders of his shirt, crept down his spine.

He could have turned around, but he didn’t.

Instead, he veered left at the roundabout and cut through the park, thinking it would shave a few minutes off. Thinking of nothing at first, but then his thoughts drifted to you — wondering why you hadn’t shown up, if you were alright.

You never really shared much about yourself, nor was he much of a conversationalist either.

He skidded to a stop when you fell into his line of sight. As if summoned in answer to all the thoughts swirling in his mind.

You sat on a bench, soaked halfway through in the slow pour of afternoon rain.

Your head was bowed, elbows braced against your knees, shoulders hunched like something inside you had finally buckled. You didn’t move. You didn’t even seem to notice the weather, as if the storm outside matched the one breaking inside of you.

Your hands clenched and unclenched, the small betrayals of restraint straining against silence. Splintering beneath some invisible pressure.

He didn’t speak.

He just crossed the path, slow and careful, so he didn’t startle you. When he reached you, he knelt in the wet grass without care for the state of his clothes. His voice, rarely used for softness, came gentler than he expected.

“Hey,” he murmured, eyes level with yours. “It’s alright. You’re not alone.”

He offered a steady smile, small but real. One he hadn’t used in years. Not since nights when comfort had meant everything, and words had been the only lifeline left.

“You’re safe,” he said, and he meant it. Not just for the place, but for the moment. For you.

Then his eyes lifted, sharpening as they studied you — not with judgment or pity, but something else entirely. Understanding.

Because he had been here before, he knew the kind of silence that weighed heavier than words. He knew the sound of breaking when no one else was listening.

And he knew what you needed when you finally looked up at him, eyes rimmed red, raw emotion etched in every line of your face.

You needed what he had never been given, and he was determined not to let you suffer alone the way he had.

His expression softened in a way you had never seen from him before, and his voice was low, steady, almost reverent as he told you:

“Whatever it is… It’s alright if you aren’t okay.”