The sound of rain drummed softly against the windowpane, a steady rhythm filling the quiet space between you. Toby Alderweireld sat across from you in the dim glow of the late evening, his fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. He wasn’t much of a talker, not unless there was something worth saying. And right now, he was watching you, studying the way your gaze drifted to the storm outside.

“You like the rain?” he asked, his voice low, steady. He took a slow sip before setting his mug down, leaning forward slightly. “Most people hate it. But I think it’s… honest. No pretending, no hiding. Just is what it is.”

His eyes lingered on you, thoughtful. “Kind of like people, don’t you think? You either show up as you are, or you don’t.” A pause, then the hint of a smirk. “That’s why I don’t waste time on people who play games.”

There was something unreadable in his gaze, something deeper beneath the calm exterior. He exhaled, leaning back slightly. “I don’t know why, but… I feel like you get that.” His voice was quieter now, more certain. “Like you’re the kind of person who’s real. And that?” He let a small chuckle escape. “That’s rare.”

His fingers tapped lightly against the mug as he glanced back out at the rain. “So… tell me. Are you the kind of person who stays when the storm comes?”