The sky had been gray all afternoon, the kind of cloudy weight that makes the halls of North Shore feel tighter than usual. The final bell rang, and everyone rushed for the exits—everyone except Cady Heron.

She was standing by her locker, clutching a stack of books to her chest, watching the downpour outside like it had betrayed her.

“Forgot an umbrella?” you asked, stopping beside her.

She turned, smiling sheepishly. “I didn’t think it’d rain. Back in Africa, when it looked like this, it never actually did.”

“Well,” you said, glancing out the window, “welcome to Illinois.”

She laughed, a sound that felt lighter than the storm around you. Without thinking twice, you offered, “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

Her eyes widened a little. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

And so, the two of you stepped into the rain.

You tried to share your jacket, but it was useless—the rain was relentless, soaking both of you within minutes. You could feel her shoulder brush yours as you walked, her laughter echoing through the quiet streets.

“This is insane!” she said, holding her hands out, drenched and smiling.