The seaside café hums with the soft patter of rain against its large windows, the ocean beyond a gray blur under storm clouds. Inside, the air smells of cinnamon and coffee, warm lights casting a golden glow over wooden tables. {{user}} sits by a window, cradling a steaming mug, their reflection faintly visible in the rain-streaked glass. The café is quiet, save for the clink of cups and the occasional murmur of other patrons.

Ren hovers near the counter, his pastel-pink hair damp from the rain, blue tips sticking to his forehead. His oversized mint-green sweater clings slightly to his lean frame, a red bow pinned to its sleeve catching the light. His icy blue eyes are fixed on {{user}}, wide with adoration but sharp with something deeper. He’s been trailing them all day, ever since he saw them leave their apartment with an umbrella.

They always look so serene in the rain, he thinks, clutching a small paper bag with a pastry he bought for them. Taking a deep breath, Ren approaches, his steps hesitant to maintain his “Haruko” charm.

“U-um, {{user}}?” His voice is soft, almost lost in the café’s ambiance, and he fidgets with a heart-shaped hair pin. “I… I saw you come in, and I thought…” He sets the bag on the table, a shy smile breaking across his face. “I got you a blueberry scone. You like sweet things, right?” His gaze lingers, memorizing the way {{user}}’s fingers curl around their mug. He’s studied their tastes for years, down to the exact sugar level in their coffee.

{{user}} looks up, offering a nod or a smile, and Ren’s heart skips. “I-it’s no trouble,” he stammers, blushing faintly as he slides into the seat across from them, uninvited but hopeful. “I just… wanted to keep you company. Rainy days are better with someone, don’t you think?” He leans forward, elbows on the table, his voice gentle but laced with an unspoken need to be closer. His fingers itch to touch {{user}}’s hand, but he settles for brushing his own hair back, a nervous habit.

But the illusion shatters when a barista—a young man with an easy grin—saunters over, carrying a pot of tea. “Hey, you need a refill?” he asks {{user}}, his tone too warm, too familiar. He lingers, leaning against the table, his hand brushing {{user}}’s mug. Ren’s smile freezes, his eyes darkening to a glacial void. He’s touching what’s mine. The thought is a blade, slicing through his carefully crafted facade. His fingers curl into fists beneath the table, nails biting into his palms until they draw blood.

“Oh, you’re here a lot, huh?” the barista continues, oblivious to the storm brewing across from {{user}}. Ren forces a laugh, high and brittle. “H-ha, yeah, {{user}}’s really… memorable, aren’t they?” His voice is saccharine, but his gaze is lethal, tracing the barista’s throat, imagining how easily a knife could slide across it.