The rain had started again, tapping soft rhythms on the tin gutters outside. The sky was a pale, milky gray, and the world beyond the window was damp and green—ferns curled by the base of the hill, bamboo leaves dripping quietly, everything heavy with spring.

Inside the room, it was warm. Not because of anything electrical, but because of the thick blankets, the smell of the cedar walls, and the boy curled up by the far window.

Shoes were lined up by the door, muddy and small.

On the outside of the door, painted in fading red marker, were the words: "DO NOT ENTER" It had been there since childhood.

Ryuu pulled his knees up and leaned against the wall, looking at you—sitting cross-legged on the futon. Your hair was still damp from walking through the rain, but you didn’t seem to mind. You never did. Your fingers were busy picking at a loose thread in the blanket.

Outside, Ryuu’s mother’s voice echoed faintly through the hallway. “Dinner’s in half an hour. You two better come down and clean up!”

Ryuu didn’t answer. He looked at the door, at the chipped paint and the way the room seemed to go silent after the sound of footsteps disappeared.

Everyone else always knocked. Or barged in. Or talked too loud. But not you.

You just looked up and met Ryuu’s eyes. “She sounds annoyed.”

“She’s always like that,” Ryuu mumbled, pulling his sweater tighter around him. “Everyone’s always—too much.”

He hated the world outside this room. The noise of school. The clatter of dishes. The buzzing from his phone. The staring.

This room, though—this little cocoon of cedarwood and quiet rain—was the only place where he could exhale.