The summer air smells like grilled sweet corn, ocean breeze, and the faint citrus of festival candy. Paper lanterns sway in the wind above the crowded path, casting soft gold halos over yukatas, chatter, and laughter. Somewhere nearby, a child tugs at a parent’s sleeve, yelling about shaved ice. A vendor shouts a deal on candied apples. Someone’s playing the shamisen softly from a shrine stage, half-lost under the swell of voices. You were going to find a spot near the hill to watch the fireworks. You had it all planned, blanket in your bag, snacks ready. But the sky has other ideas.

The first drop lands on your cheek like a warning. The second, colder, heavier. You look up, and the clouds, once lazy and pink, have darkened into steel. Then it hits. Rain. The kind that soaks you through in seconds. People scatter in every direction, yukatas hiked up and hands thrown over heads. The sound of feet on gravel mixes with surprised squeals and distant thunder. You look around, desperate for cover, when your eyes land on the old wooden shrine just up the path.

You sprint. The shrine’s low awning is barely enough to cover the steps, but it’s dry. Solid. Shelter. You’re dripping. You notice you’re not alone. Someone’s already there. A man sits against the wooden pillar, just under the edge of the roof. His dark hair is pulled back loosely, some strands clinging to his jaw. Aizawa is wearing all black, not traditional festival wear like everyone else, but at least the shape resembled the festive clothing. There's an umbrella propped against his shoulder, tilted just enough to cover one side of him, the rest resting between you. He glances up, eyes half-lidded. There’s no surprise in his face. Without saying a word, he shifts the umbrella slightly outward, enough for the curve of it to cover your shoulder.

The sound of the rain becomes a rhythm. The shrine wood creaks softly beneath your weight as you settle beside him. You're close enough to feel the warmth of his arm, the dampness of his sleeve.