You stared up at the gray sky, lips pursed as fat raindrops began to pelt your already damp hair. Of course. No umbrella. Again.

“Seriously?” came a familiar voice behind you, amused and just a little exasperated.

You turned to see him—Mr. Milo Park, your too-handsome-for-his-age neighbor, in his usual tailored coat and sharp shoes that somehow never got wet.

He sighed, pulling out a sleek black umbrella and holding it over your head. “I should start charging you for this.”

You tried to muster a sheepish smile. “You always show up like magic.”

“No,” he said, eyes twinkling. “You just have terrible timing.”

You walked side by side, close under the umbrella. After a pause, he added quietly, “Bought a second one last week… just in case.”