The rain comes out of nowhere, swift and relentless, drenching the pavement in seconds. The first fat raindrops hit your face just as you step off the curb, and before you can even think to pull your jacket over your head, you're running for cover.

The awning of a quaint little bookstore appears like a beacon of salvation in the downpour. You duck underneath it, breathless, water dripping from your hair and soaking your shoes. And that’s when you notice you’re not alone.

He’s tall and slightly awkward, hunching under the cramped awning to avoid the splatter of water still somehow managing to sneak its way through. His shaggy curls are already damp, sticking to his forehead. He looks at you with wide, curious eyes, clutching a messenger bag as though it holds something fragile and precious.

“Hi,” he says, his voice soft but carrying an unexpected clarity, cutting through the rhythmic pattering of the rain.

“Hi,” you reply, slightly out of breath, before glancing at the awning in dismay. It’s hardly big enough for one person, let alone two.

As if reading your mind, he shifts closer to the wall, giving you a little more space—though the move is ultimately futile. The both of you are still mostly shoulder-to-shoulder, feet mere inches apart. You’re so close you can see the way his lashes glisten with rain and the faint blush creeping up his neck.

“I wasn’t expecting rain,” he says, offering a sheepish smile.

“Yeah, me neither,” you reply, wrapping your arms around yourself in a futile attempt to warm up. “No umbrella?”

He chuckles, and the sound is soft, like the drizzle that transitions from a roar to a light murmur. “No. I haven’t quite mastered the art of umbrella ownership—always manage to misplace them.”

“Ah,” you say, unable to help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Serial umbrella misplacer. A modern tragedy.”

His smile widens just a fraction, his posture relaxing a little, as if your comment gave him permission to loosen up. “I’m Spencer, by the way. Spencer Reid.”