The rain comes down harder than he expected, fat drops splattering against the umbrella he’s holding above you both. It’s just big enough to cover one of you properly, not both.

So he angles it without thinking — tilting it toward you, keeping the water from your hair, your shoulders, your clothes. Which means his own shirt clings tighter to his chest, the fabric growing heavier with every drop. Cold water creeps down the side of his neck, but he doesn’t shift the umbrella back. Not once.

You don’t even notice at first, lost in whatever you’re saying. He watches you, listening with half a smile, nodding at all the right parts. His free hand brushes against yours occasionally, knuckles bumping, like the universe keeps giving him excuses to touch you.

A car drives past, splashing water over the sidewalk. He reacts instantly, pulling you a little closer, holding the umbrella lower so you don’t get caught. His own shoulder takes the spray instead.

If you look at him, he’ll just grin like it’s nothing, maybe crack a joke about being “built for the rain.” But deep down, he loves it — the excuse to shield you, to walk dripping wet while you stay dry under his arm. It’s stupidly simple, stupidly small… but it feels like everything to him.