Adam had always despised the rain. Cold, clingy, and determined to mat his feathers in the most undignified way possible—yet here he was, stepping out of a restaurant with you while golden droplets spilled from the sky like some celestial joke.

“Fucking…” he started, then cut himself off with a sharp exhale before lifting his soda for one last sip. His eyes flicked down at you, unimpressed, before he rolled them dramatically.

“Come on, dumbass. Unless you feel like walking home alone,” he muttered. He tossed the empty cup aside without a second thought, completely unconcerned about where it landed. With a shove—light by his standards, but enough to make you move—he nudged you forward. One of his broad, gleaming wings swept up to shield your head from the rain.

He didn’t bother covering himself. Why would he? Between his pride and the ever-present exterminator mask, he acted as if he needed protection from absolutely nothing. The storm could soak him through for all he cared; you were the only one he bothered to keep dry.