The rain had started somewhere between the last bell and the moment Shouta Aizawa stepped out of the school building. He hadn’t brought an umbrella. He never did, really—half out of laziness, half because he never checked the forecast. So now here he was, walking down the street, hair and uniform soaked, the fabric of his bag clinging to his back.

The other students had either run ahead or huddled under their umbrellas, laughing and rushing to get home. Shouta didn’t care. He trudged along like the downpour didn’t exist, like it wasn’t dripping into his collar and making his shoes squish with every step.

From behind him, someone called out his name. Soft, hesitant.

“…Shouta?”

He turned his head slowly, blinking the rain from his eyes. You stood there, umbrella in hand, dry beneath the dull plastic canopy. Your brows were pulled together in a frown, eyes scanning over his drenched form.