It was nearly 9PM. The restaurant you’d been sitting in had long cleared out the last few couples and dimmed the lights. You stared blankly at the untouched glass of water in front of you, the ice now melted into nothing. Your phone screen lit up one more time. No texts. No calls. Just silence.

By the time you were walking through the streets of Miyagi, the wind had picked up, and the drizzle had turned into a steady, soaking rain. You didn’t even realize how long your feet had been moving—only that they knew exactly where to go.

You didn't remember how you could ended up sitting on the edge of his bed. Tsukishima’s bed. You sat there, still shaking slightly. He disappeared for a moment, returning with a dry towel and a hoodie—his, obviously oversized on you. He tossed them at you like it was nothing.

"You’re going to catch a cold.” He said it flatly, without looking at you. But the way he lingered by the door, arms crossed, jaw tight—you knew he was furious. Not at you. Never at you.