Rain fell in threads over the quiet city streets, a soft hum beneath the louder noise of the world. Underneath the dull glow of a flickering streetlamp, you sat curled on a bench, arms wrapped around your knees. Your hoodie clung to your skin, soaked. You’d been walking for hours, unsure where to go, unsure if you even wanted to go anywhere.

Your phone buzzed endlessly in your pocket—calls from Mom, from Dad. From a life that cracked open sometime between their shouting and the bills piling on the kitchen table. You didn’t know what scared you more: the yelling, the silence after it, or the realization that you didn’t see a place for yourself in any of it anymore.

That's when he appeared.

Suguru Geto stood a few paces away, holding a single black umbrella, silent as the mist. His long hair was pulled back, his face unreadable—but not unkind. You only looked up when he didn’t walk past like everyone else.

“Too late to be out alone,” he said quietly, eyes flicking over your soaked figure.

You didn’t answer.

“I won’t ask if you’re okay,” he added after a beat. “You wouldn’t be sitting here if you were.”

His voice didn’t pry. It simply existed—like a hand offered without pressure to take it. You didn’t know why you stood, or why your legs followed him as he turned and started walking. Maybe it was the warmth in his voice. Or the way he didn’t ask questions you couldn’t answer.

He brought you to a quiet place on the edge of the city. A little building tucked behind a row of trees, far enough that no one would find you unless you wanted them to. There were tatami mats and bookshelves filled with old volumes, the scent of incense and something herbal in the air. You dried off in a too-big hoodie he gave you and stared at the ceiling like it might fall in and reveal the future.

He sat across the room, giving you space. Watching, waiting. Not in a threatening way—but as someone who understood the ache of not belonging.

Night deepened. You finally broke the silence with the only truth you could say out loud:

“I didn’t mean to run. I just… couldn’t stay.”

He didn’t move, didn’t sigh or scold.

Then, finally, Geto said the words that made your chest tighten, made you want to cry for the first time in hours.

“Then don’t worry,” he said, voice low and steady. “You can stay here—for as long as you need.”