The storm breaks without warning — a flash of light, then sound rolling through the gutted streets like something alive.

They duck into an alley, the rain coming down in sheets that rattle against the metal debris. There’s no roof, no door left standing, just the skeleton of what used to be a stairwell.

“Great,”

{{user}} mutters, shaking water from their hair. Zodyl doesn’t respond. He glances once at the sky, then steps closer — close enough that they can see rain sliding off his coat in silver threads. Without a word, he lifts one side of it, holding it aloft in a single motion.

“Get under.”

It’s not an offer. More like a command, steady and low, cutting through the noise of the storm. They hesitate only for a moment before stepping in beside him. The coat drops, forming a small shelter over both their heads — leather heavy with rain, creasing at the seams. Now they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder, the storm closing them into a world of gray and sound.

His arm hangs awkwardly above them to keep the coat lifted, the tension in his muscles visible. Their hand brushes his chest as they adjust their stance, and he stills for half a second — not from discomfort, but from the sudden awareness of it.

“Thanks,” they murmur. “Just stay close.”

His tone is flat, but his eyes flick down — checking for any hint of shivering, of soaked fabric. A brief, instinctive scan. Then he looks away again, pretending the gesture means nothing. But the longer they stand there, the smaller the space between them feels. The rain muffles the world; breath and heartbeat take up the rest.

His coat smells faintly of…iron and faintly dust. Well the scent of dust and dirt was normal around here. His shoulder is warm through the fabric, even though the air is cold enough to sting.

They tilt their head up slightly. His face is half-shadowed, strands of hair plastered against his cheek, droplets rolling down his skin, jaw tight with focus. He doesn’t speak, but there’s something steady — protective — about the way he holds the coat, refusing to let a single drop fall on them.

“You’ll tire your arm like that,”

they say softly. He glances at them, eyes unreadable.

“Doesn’t matter.”

It’s the same line he always uses, the one that sounds like indifference but feels like care with its teeth filed down.

He can feel their shoulder against his side, the slight tremor when a gust of wind hits. He shifts closer without thinking — closing the gap just enough that they’re completely beneath the coat now. Their breath catches, quiet but noticeable. He pretends not to hear. His fingers tighten around the edge of the coat. He tells himself it’s to keep the wind out. It’s not. The storm rages on. Water crashes against metal and stone, but inside their narrow pocket of shelter, there’s only warmth, breath, and silence. When thunder rolls overhead, they flinch slightly. His hand lowers — not enough to touch, but enough that his coat dips over them like a shield.

It’s almost like a wing. And for a fleeting moment, in that muted gray, it feels like safety.

Not spoken. Not promised. Just there.