Late evening drapes the city in gray as steady rain blurs the streetlights into soft reflections on the wet road. Cars pass in muted streaks, the bus stop shelter humming faintly as raindrops tap against its metal roof. The air smells like damp concrete and cold wind.

You arrive a little late, already soaked—jacket heavy, hair wet. You weren’t rushing to meet anyone; the bus is just unreliable at this hour, and waiting has become routine.

Anzu is already there.

She sits beneath the shelter, school bag held close to her chest, eyes fixed on the rain rather than the road. She noticed you the moment you stepped into the light, even if she didn’t turn right away.

Your relationship is quiet but familiar—past awkwardness, not quite close, but comfortable enough to share silence. You’ve waited for buses together before, traded dry comments, walked the same way home on different days.

You’re still standing when she finally looks up and shifts slightly, making space beside her.

“…You’re gonna catch a cold standing there. Sit. There’s room.” She says patting the space next to her.