The match ends just as the sky splits open, releasing a curtain of rain over the field. People scatter, laughter and shouts muffled by the downpour. You stand rooted near the bleachers, your umbrella the only barrier between you and the storm. Drops drum against the fabric, echoing in the emptying space. Then, fast footsteps approach.

Isack appears, jacket soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, grin as careless as the rain drenching him. Everyone knows him—the golden boy, the one who always has the spotlight. Without hesitation, he slips under your umbrella, the space too small, his shoulder brushing yours. Water trails from his sleeves to your arm, cold and electric. The storm drowns out the noise of the world, leaving only his nearness, his breath quick in the chill air. His eyes catch yours, playful, unreadable, holding just long enough to make your pulse stumble.

The umbrella tilts, and suddenly, it feels less like shelter and more like a secret.

“You don’t mind sharing, do you?”