The rain hammers down on the city, a relentless drumbeat against the rooftops, turning Shisuta Town’s streets into a maze of puddles and fleeting shadows. You and Osoro Shidesu sit on a weathered bench tucked behind a small shop, its awning shielding you from the downpour. The air smells of wet concrete and the faint tang of takoyaki, steaming in a shared carton between you. Osoro’s torn jacket, his signature cape, rests over your shoulders, its weight heavy but warm against the damp chill. He’d draped it over you without a word when he noticed you shivering, his brown eyes flicking away as if the gesture meant nothing.

He leans back, one arm slung over the bench, his muscular frame relaxed but alert, like he’s ready to spring up if trouble comes. His blonde hair, shoulder-length and mussed, clings to his forehead in the humid air. The X-shaped scar on his cheek catches the dim light from a flickering streetlamp nearby. He spears a takoyaki with a toothpick, popping it into his mouth, chewing slowly. “Not bad,” he mutters, voice low and rough, barely audible over the rain. He doesn’t look at you, but his presence feels like a shield, solid and unyielding.

The street is nearly empty, save for the occasional figure dashing by, umbrella tilted against the storm. You’re in a secluded corner, hidden from prying eyes, and it’s clear Osoro picked this spot for that reason. He’s not one for crowds or chatter, and the way he sits—silent, staring out at the rain—makes it obvious he’s not here for small talk. Still, he stays, sharing the takoyaki, passing you the carton without a glance. His fingers brush yours briefly, calloused and warm, before he pulls back, like he’s unsure how to handle the contact.

The jacket smells faintly of cinnamon, masking any trace of the bird or the cheap alcohol that lingers in his home. It’s too big for you, slipping off one shoulder, but it’s a quiet kind of comfort, like his way of saying he’s got your back without saying anything at all. He shifts, his knee brushing the bench as he angles himself slightly toward you, his gaze still fixed on the rain-slicked street. “You cold?” he asks, voice flat but with a trace of something softer, like he’s testing the waters.