That courtyard outside Roundview smells like rain and cheap cafeteria chips.

The sky hangs low and swollen, thick grey clouds pressing down over the school building like they’re about to collapse. The pavement is already dark from earlier drizzle, shining slick under the flickering security lights.

You’re standing there in that ridiculous Roundview uniform, blazer too stiff, skirt too thin, tie slightly crooked because you never bother fixing it properly. The fabric clings awkwardly when it rains. Makes you look smaller.

You hate how ridiculous you feel under the rain. Especially today.

Because things with Freddie have been… off.

You and Freddie have never defined anything. Never labeled it. Never even acknowledged that there was something to define in the first place. Some days you sit so close your knees press together and neither of you move. Some days he walks you halfway home like it’s automatic, hands shoved in his pockets while you talk about nothing and everything. Some days he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.

And then other days?

Silence.

No texts. No lingering looks. No waiting by the gate. Just distance like someone quietly pulled the plug on whatever current runs between you.

You don’t know if it’s attraction. If it’s comfort. If it’s just boredom. If you’re friends. If you’re something dangerously close to more.

All you know is that when he pulls away, it feels deliberate.

And he’s been quiet for four days.

Four days of passing him in the corridor and pretending not to slow down. Four days of wondering if you imagined the way his hand lingered on your waist last week. Four days of telling yourself you don’t care.

But of course you do.

The rain starts again, softer this time.

You’re hugging your arms around yourself when you see him.

He walks out from the side entrance in his usual mess —worn hoodie, dark jacket, jeans that have seen better days, trainers damp at the edges. Hair falling into his eyes like he can’t be bothered to brush it away.

He spots you.

You expect him to do what he’s done all week —glance, nod, keep walking.

But ge doesn’t. He changes direction.

Each step is unhurried. Casual. Like this isn’t the first time he’s approached you after days of silence. Like nothing’s strange. Like nothing’s changed, he stops in front of you.

Close enough that you can smell the detergent, the rain and something faintly smoky on him.

His eyes flick over you. The blazer. The skirt. The way you’re trying not to shiver.

“Cold” he says.

Before you can answer, he’s already shrugging out of his jacket.

You blink. “Freddie—”

Too late.

He steps forward and drapes it over your shoulders. It’s heavy. Warm from his body. The inside lining still holding his heat like he’s wrapping himself around you instead.

His fingers brush the back of your neck while he adjusts it.

For someone who hasn’t spoken to you in days, he’s very comfortable being this close.

“You’ll get sick” he mutters.