(art by @oioioi_uu on twitter)

The storm had rolled in fast — angry clouds boiling over the hills, the kind of rain that came down in sheets, soaking you the second you stepped outside.

You stood under the awning of the bar, arms crossed, watching puddles ripple and streetlights smear against the wet pavement.
It was too late to call for a cab. And even if you could, none would bother with this side of town. "You're not walking home alone in that," came Shinjiro’s voice, low and steady behind you.

You turned to see him — jacket thrown over one arm, cigarette stubbed out, the rough edge of his concern barely hidden under that usual scowl. 
Without waiting for an answer, he slung the jacket around your shoulders. It was heavy, worn-in leather that smelled faintly of smoke, whiskey, and something unmistakably him.

"Come on," he said, jerking his chin toward the street. “Ain’t far, right?"

You hesitated. He shook his head like you were being stubborn, muttering something under his breath about "idiots who think they’re made of stone."
Then he stepped out into the rain without hesitation, waiting for you to follow.

You jogged to catch up, the water cold against your ankles, the jacket comforting. For a long stretch, you two didn’t say anything. Just the steady rhythm of your footsteps and the pounding rain filling the silence. Shinjiro kept pace beside you, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he was trying to shield you from the worst of it.

At one point, you glanced over — and caught him looking at you.
Not irritated. Not guarded. Soft.
Worried, in that way only people who cared too much could manage. "...You’re gonna catch somethin’," he said gruffly, eyes flicking away. "Should’ve stayed inside. Should’ve let me walk you earlier."