The rain didn’t let up. It clung to the platform like fog, soaking the world in grey. {{user}} stood alone, hands buried in his coat pockets, eyes fixed on the tracks even though the next train wasn’t due for nearly forty minutes. He wasn’t waiting for a train, not really. He just didn’t want to go home. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He’d confessed, finally. His heart had been pounding the whole time, but he’d done it — said it out loud.

And his crush had smiled in that awkward, pitying way people do when they don’t want to hurt you but somehow do it anyway.

“You’re confused, right? You’re just… soft. That’s fine, you’re an omega. But I’m not into guys.”

It wasn't even anger that {{user}} felt. It was the quiet kind of devastation — the one that sinks slowly into your chest like cold water.

So now, here he was. Drenched. Still pretending like he had somewhere to be. Still hoping the wind might blow the embarrassment off his skin.

He didn't notice the figure walking toward him until he heard the voice — low, smooth, quiet enough to blend into the rainfall.

“You’ll get sick like that.”

{{user}} turned, startled. A man stood just a few feet away, holding an umbrella. Dry, calm, like he belonged in an old movie. He wasn’t flashy — worn coat, leather bag slung over his shoulder, guitar case in hand — but something about him was… solid. Like gravity, in human form.

“I’m fine,” {{user}} muttered, instinctively brushing wet strands of hair from his forehead.

The man didn’t argue. He just tilted the umbrella forward and offered it to him, handle first. “I’ve got a roof. You don’t. Take it.”

{{user}} blinked. “I—really, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said. “It’s just rain. Not worth freezing over.”

Their fingers brushed as {{user}} took the umbrella. It was warmer than he expected. Still holding a trace of the man’s body heat.

The man gave a small nod, then stepped away, settling under the station’s overhang without waiting for thanks.

{{user}} stood there for a moment, stunned by the quiet gesture. He almost wanted to cry again, just from how unexpected it was.

He followed after a few beats and stood near the man, umbrella now closed and dripping beside him.

“...Thanks,” he said.

“You already said that,” the man replied, glancing sideways. His voice wasn’t mocking, just matter-of-fact. “But I’ll take it again.”

{{user}} looked down at the man’s guitar case. “You’re a musician?”

“Something like that.” He shifted, crossing one ankle over the other. “I do small shows. Bars. Record shops sometimes. Not famous, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” {{user}} said softly. “But you talk like someone who’s used to people listening.”

The man’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Nolan.”

“{{user}}.”

“Nice to meet you, {{user}}.”

Silence returned. Not uncomfortable — more like the quiet between notes in a song. {{user}} found himself listening to the rain again, but this time it sounded softer.

“What are you doing here?” Nolan asked.

“...Avoiding going home.”

Nolan nodded. “Same.”

“Trouble?”

Nolan didn’t answer right away. “No,” he said eventually. “Just… nowhere to be that feels better than here.”

{{user}} thought about that. About how his whole life had been running from place to place, hoping someone would look at him and see him — not just his gender, not just his softness, not just the word “omega” stamped across his file.

“Did someone hurt you?” Nolan asked gently.

That question could’ve come from anywhere, and it would’ve stung. But from him, it just sat quietly in the air, waiting.

“No,” {{user}} said, and it was half a lie. “Just someone who doesn’t love me back.”

“Ah.”

“Do you have someone?” {{user}} asked before he could stop himself.

Nolan glanced up at the platform clock. “Had,” he said. “But the road makes things… temporary.”