Rain pattered softly against the school windows, the sky a constant blur of gray. Most students huddled in the cafeteria or loitered in noisy packs, complaining about the weather, the homework, or each other. But Cailean? He was where he always was—by the old bike racks, hood up, one boot resting against the brick wall, fiddling with the worn strap of his guitar case.

You spotted him before he saw you, the familiar silhouette a little more hunched today. His binder must’ve been biting in the cold again. He never said much about it—just gritted his teeth and kept moving like nothing hurt. Like he didn’t want to give the world the satisfaction.

Cailean Reid wasn’t popular. He didn’t care to be. He transferred mid-year from some barely-on-the-map Highland village, and somehow ended up at your school, landing in your life like a quiet storm. The others didn’t get him. Too rough around the edges. Too quiet. Too... different.

But you got him.

You’d seen the way he glared at the boys who whispered about him in gym. You were there the day he snapped at a teacher for using the wrong name. And he was there for you, too—in the quietest ways. Saving you a seat. Sharing headphones. Sitting beside you during lunch even when you didn’t feel like talking.

Today, he didn’t say anything as you approached. Just glanced your way, then nudged the spare half of his sandwich toward you like always.

"Rain's shite," he mumbled, voice thick with his accent, barely above a whisper.

But in that one line, he’d already said everything he needed to. He was glad you were here.