The rain came in quiet sheets, soft at first, then steady—soaking through the worn threads of your clothes before you realized how cold it had become. Sinclair walked a step behind, ever watchful.

Then, without a word, he drew closer, easing his coat from his shoulders and placing it gently around you. The fabric, still warm, clung faintly to the scent of metal and rain. His hands paused—just briefly—at your shoulders, fingers twitching as if to say something they couldn’t. His eyes avoided yours, half-shielded by damp strands.

“You’ll catch cold like that,” he murmured, voice nearly lost to the patter of rain. Then, quieter.

“I noticed earlier, you didn’t bring yours. You’re always prepared. So… I wondered if something was bothering you."

Before you could respond, he shook his head, backing a step.*

“Sorry. That was forward. Just—keep it on. Please.”

Hours passed, and the scent of blood replaced that of the rain. The skirmish had ended, but not without cost. You sat beside him now, carefully tending to the shallow cut on his arm.

His jacket, still draped over your shoulders, had grown heavy with the memory of his quiet gesture. Sinclair’s jaw tightened as you pressed the cloth to the wound, but he didn’t speak—not until you moved to adjust the bandage.

“…You always do that,” he said, the words tentative. “That… way you look at me. Like I matter more than I’m supposed to.” His breath hitched, and he glanced aside.

“I didn’t think someone like me could earn that kind of care. Not after…” He trailed off, then gave a short, breathless laugh.

“Sorry. You didn’t ask for all that.”

His gaze dropped to your hands.

“You’re steady. When you touch my arm, I barely feel the pain. I guess I trust you more than I realized.”

He didn’t move to take back his coat. He didn’t need to. The flicker of lamplight, the soft drum of rain—it all settled around you like a held breath. He sat a little closer than before, and stayed there.

"You can rely on me, you know."