The rain had started gentle. Barely a mist. You hadn’t even thought to bring a coat.

It was Rudy who noticed first. Of course it was. He always does.

The first chill had barely crept across your arms when you felt fabric against your shoulders—warm, worn-in, carrying the faded scent of him: cedar, gunpowder, and something quieter. His sweatshirt, tugged loose over your frame. Big on you. Heavy in the right way.

“You’re freezing,” he’d said, soft. Like it wasn’t a question.

You’d tried to protest. “Rudy—what about you?”

But he just shook his head, a small, quiet smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “I’m alright, cariño. I run hot.”

A lie. He always lies like that—when it’s for you.

You’d kept walking. City slick with light and wet concrete. The two of you side by side in the downpour. You, bundled in his warmth. Him, soaked at the edges—but still walking on the outside of the sidewalk.

And when the rain turned from mist to sheets—cold and wind-driven—he didn’t hesitate.

Without a word, Rudy started peeling off his jacket too. The tactical one. The one you’ve seen him in a hundred times. The one that never leaves his back, even on stakeouts.

He draped it over your shoulders, over the sweatshirt. Carefully. Like it mattered.

You turned to him in disbelief. “Rudy, no—”

But he cut you off before you could finish. “You’re shivering.” His voice low, but firm. “Let me take care of you.”

And just like that, he kept walking. No more jacket. No more sweatshirt. Only a soaked black T-shirt, clinging to the shape of him, the fabric darkened and sticking to his skin. His arms were covered in goosebumps. His breath fogged in front of him. But he stayed on the outside of the sidewalk anyway. Still shielding you from splashes, from cars, from everything.

You tried to switch sides. He stopped you with a hand on your waist. “I told you,” he said gently. “I walk closest to the street. Especially with you.”

You didn’t argue again. You just walked quietly, the sound of your footsteps softened by the puddles, your heart heavier than any rain.

And maybe it was the cold, or maybe it was him, but your throat burned.

Because he gave you everything he had—warmth, space, safety— And never asked for a single thing back.