Every Friday, he’s there - in the exact same spot, at the exact same time, with the exact same drink without fail. His presence has become commonplace, and you found yourself befriending the strange boy with the rigid routine that you’ve unwittingly become integral to.

Without realizing it, he’s become a part of your routine as well. So when he’s over half an hour late, of course you’re concerned. Eventually, a whopping hour and a half late, he bursts through your door as if he’s trying to rip it off its hinges, the bell above the entrance rattling angrily in response to his haste.

He’s sopping wet, glaring daggers at the dark sky outside, to which the sky responds with a booming crack of thunder. His gaze snaps over to you, “Don’t. Say. A word,” he snaps, clearly frustrated by the cloud’s slight against him.