He's standing in front of you, drenched in the cold May rain. He's holding flowers in his hand and God, he looks like he still loves you.

Suguru's taking a step forward now. One foot on the ground and another on the first step leading up to your door. His cheeks and nose are dusted with the prettiest shade of red you've ever seen and you hate it.

"Please don't close the door." He begs, hand gripping tighter against the bouquet of flowers. They're made with your favorites, of course. Because only he knew what flowers you loved.

You hate how he knows. You hate how he's standing here, soaked and begging to come inside.

You hate how you let him in anyways.