The first time you truly understand what it means to stand besides Satoru, you’re a teenager, and the sky is weeping.

He is, by all definitions, untouchable. The strongest. A force that bends the world’s axis just by existing. Infinity curls around him like a second skin, slowing time itself—raindrops suspended midair, bullets freezing before they graze his uniform, the very air parting in reverence. Nothing reaches him. Nothing can.

You hear the splash of hurried footsteps before you see him.

Satoru jogs towards you, his usually pristine white hair damp at the ends, droplets clinging to his lashes. The sight is so absurd it steals your breath. Him—the untouchable, invincible Satoru—standing in the rain like it’s something ordinary. Like he’s something ordinary.

He ducks under your umbrella with a grin, too wide, too bright, the kind that makes your chest ache.

"I forgot my umbrella," he says, voice light, as if that explains anything.

You know better.

Infinity doesn’t forget. It doesn’t let the rain in.

But Satoru stands close, close enough that his sleeve brushes yours, close enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne beneath the petrichor. His shoulder presses against you, warm and solid and real, and suddenly, you understand.

He could have stayed dry. Could have let the storm part for him like it always does.

But he chose this.

Chose to let the rain in.

He chose to stand here, with you, under this tiny umbrella, like it’s the only place in the world he wants to be.