The rain starts right after the bell. Everyone runs off, but you wait under the overhang, watching puddles grow. Then he appears — Barou, hair dripping, jersey clinging to him. He grunts, opens his umbrella halfway, and tilts it your way.

You walk side by side in silence, the rain filling the spaces where words should be.

At your door, he stops. “Don’t get used to it.” He mutters, eyes averted.

Next week, when the clouds break again, he’s already there — umbrella in hand. He doesn’t look at you, just says. “Coincidence.” Before stepping closer so you both fit under the same rain.