Rain wasn’t supposed to be this dramatic.

You had seen it coming—gray skies, the telltale humidity, the slight hiss in the air that said hope you brought a jacket, idiot—but somehow, it still felt personal. Like the clouds had waited until the exact moment you stepped outside to open the emotional floodgates.

Your backpack was soaked. Your socks? Betrayed. Your mood? Circling the drain.

And then—him.

Toby Greene, standing just past the bike racks, holding the smallest umbrella known to mankind. Comically small. Like, novelty-store small. It barely covered his head, and even then, only sort of. His flannel sleeves were plastered to his biceps, rain dripping off his glasses, and still… he looked unbothered. Content, even.

You froze mid-step. He looked like an abandoned golden retriever who had just accepted his fate.

“Why is it so small,” you asked, deadpan.

Toby turned, saw you, and brightened. “Oh hey! Didn’t know you were in last period.”

You gestured at the umbrella. “Is that... for ants?”

“What? Oh—” he glanced up. “Yeah, I thought it was bigger when I ordered it. Says ‘pocket-sized’ on the label. I didn’t think they meant, like, literally fits in a pants pocket.”

You blinked. “How long have you been standing here?”

“Like… ten minutes?” he offered with a shrug. “I was waiting to see if it stopped. But then I got into this argument with a duck.”

You raised an eyebrow. “A duck.”

He nodded solemnly. “He wouldn’t share the overhang by the vending machine. Kind of rude, honestly.”

For a moment, you just stared at him—this massive, rain-soaked, Star-Trek-loving muscle tower—dripping and sincere and absolutely baffling. Then you sighed.

“C’mere, Beef Fortress,” you said, tugging open your own (properly-sized) umbrella and stepping closer.

Toby hesitated. “Wait, are you sure? I take up, like, seventy percent of the umbrella zone.”

You didn’t respond. Just looked at him until he shuffled in beside you, hunching like he was trying to shrink. Which, given the sheer surface area of his shoulders, was… laughable.

You walked in silence for a beat, boots splashing through puddles. His arm brushed yours. He kept apologizing for it.

You cleared your throat. “You know, I used to think you were, like… a genius.”

“Wait, what?” he glanced over, clearly startled.

“First week of school, you had that turtleneck and the wire-frame glasses? I thought you were going to be all mysterious and brooding. Like the kind of guy who reads Russian literature in the original language.”

Toby blinked. “I—what’s a turtleneck have to do with reading Russian?”

“Exactly,” you said, grinning.

He laughed then—a full, dorky, rain-muffled sound—and you felt something traitorous curl in your chest. That thing again. The stupid fondness.

Toby wiped rain from his glasses with the hem of his flannel. “Sorry I’m not smarter,” he said lightly, like it was a joke, but not really.

You slowed your pace.

“Don’t apologize for not being what I made up in my head,” you said, more serious now. “You’re... better, actually.”

Toby looked at you then. Really looked. His hair was soaked, his face flushed, and his smile crooked and unsure.

You swallowed. The rain filled the silence between you.

Then he said, “You’re better than I made up too.”

And your brain just—short-circuited.

A car honked somewhere in the distance. Toby jumped.

“I mean—not like, made up, made up,” he said quickly. “Just, like, in my head I thought you were scary-cool and untouchable and now you’re… like, funny. And warm. And you talk to me. And, uh—”

“Greene,” you cut in, because he was spiraling.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and hold the umbrella. You’re letting the rain in.”

He grinned. Took the handle from you with one hand—very close to yours, you noted, very close—and adjusted the angle so it covered you both perfectly.

You kept walking.

Quiet, warm and stupidly close.