Rain changes patterns. Fewer students stay out. The common room is nearly empty.

He enters without a specific reason.

You’re there.

Same couch as usual. Not closest to the window. Not centered in the room—positioned to avoid attention without fully withdrawing from it.

Your phone rests in your hands, screen dark. You haven’t been using it.

Thunder rolls outside. He registers the sound. Your shoulders tense briefly, then settle. The reaction is controlled. Familiar.

You look up as he steps inside. The timing suggests awareness rather than coincidence.

He takes the chair across from you. The distance is deliberate.

Silence follows. It lasts longer than most people tolerate.

“You avoid the windows during storms.” he says. Not a question.

You glance toward the glass, then back. No response.

The rain continues.

He remains seated longer than necessary.