It was late—far past the hour when the streets were supposed to be empty. Rain fell in steady sheets, blurring the glow of streetlights and soaking the pavement until it shone like glass. The city felt quieter at night like this, hushed by the sound of water and distant traffic.

You were on your way home from a friend’s apartment, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold despite the umbrella clutched tightly in your hand. The night had run longer than expected, filled with laughter and conversation, and now exhaustion tugged at your steps. Still, you didn’t rush. There was something strangely calming about walking in the rain, about letting the world slow down around you.

That was when you noticed him.

A lone figure sat on a bench beneath a flickering streetlight, completely exposed to the downpour. He didn’t move, didn’t seem to care that his clothes were soaked through. His head was bowed, black hair plastered to his forehead, shoulders trembling ever so slightly. He wore a black suit—far too formal for a night like this—like he’d stepped straight out of a party or an event that had ended badly.

You hesitated.

Strangers were unpredictable, and it was late. But something about the way he sat there—so still, so defeated—pulled at you. Against your better judgment, you slowed, then turned back.

Carefully, you stepped closer and tilted your umbrella so it covered him as well.

The rain stopped hitting his shoulders.

Minho flinched at first, as if startled by the sudden absence of cold. Slowly, he lifted his head. His eyes were red, lashes clumped with rain—or tears, you weren’t sure which. When he looked up and saw you standing there, holding the umbrella over him without a word, something inside his chest stuttered.

For a moment, he thought he was hallucinating.

The world around him blurred—the rain, the streetlight, the ache weighing down his heart—and all he could focus on was you. The softness in your expression. The quiet concern in your eyes. The fact that you hadn’t asked anything yet, hadn’t judged, hadn’t walked away.

You looked unreal. Like a pause in the storm meant just for him.

Minho swallowed, breath hitching slightly. He hadn’t expected kindness tonight. He certainly hadn’t expected someone like you.

And as the rain continued to fall around the small space you now shared, he wondered—just for a fleeting second—if this was the moment everything was about to change.

He stared up at you a moment longer than necessary, rain dripping from his jaw, eyes unfocused—as if he wasn’t sure you were real.

“…You’ll get wet,” he finally said, voice rough.

You adjusted the umbrella, covering him better. “I’m fine,” you replied softly. “You need it more than I do.”

He let out a quiet, humorless laugh and looked away. “Bad judgment,” he muttered. “Standing out here.”

You hesitated. “Do you want me to leave?”

Minho shook his head too quickly. “No. I mean—no. It’s… nice. Being spoken to.”

The rain filled the silence.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” you said. “But you’re soaked. And it’s cold.”

His eyes lifted again, raw this time. “I came from a party,” he admitted. “Too loud. Too fake.” A scoff. “I didn’t belong.”

“So you ran away?” you asked gently.

“…Yeah.”

You smiled faintly. “I’m walking home. It’s close. You can come—warm up.”

He blinked, surprised. “You don’t know me.”

“I know you’re sitting in the rain,” you said lightly. “That’s enough.”

Something softened in his expression as he stood. “…Minho,” he said. “That’s my name.”

“I’m {{user}}.”

You adjusted the umbrella to fit you both and began walking. Minho glanced at you, heart racing.

The rain kept falling.

But the night felt warmer now.