It wasn’t even supposed to rain that day.

You were standing outside a bus stop with no shelter, jacket pulled over your head, watching water bead down your sleeves. The forecast said “light drizzle.” The forecast was a liar.

People rushed by with umbrellas, faces tucked down, not bothering to look. So when someone stopped beside you and tilted their umbrella your way, you flinched a little.

“You’ll catch a cold like that,” he said, voice quiet but certain.

You turned.

He was ordinary in the best kind of way — black cap, gray hoodie, clear umbrella. But his eyes were warm. Familiar, almost.

It took you half a second too long to recognize the face. Im Siwan.

You opened your mouth — to say thank you, or I know who you are, or I'm fine — but you didn’t get a word out.

He didn’t wait. Just shifted the umbrella so it covered both of you more evenly.

“It’s okay,” he said gently, like he was used to this. Not the attention. The quiet.

You stood there in silence for another minute, watching the cars go by, your shoulders no longer soaked.