The rain had begun to fall in earnest now—soft at first, like a whisper against the earth, then growing steadier, heavier, as if the sky itself had finally given up holding back.

The courtyard emptied entirely.

The only sounds left were the hum of water hitting concrete, the rustle of wind through the trees, and the soft rhythm of your footsteps beside his.

Yoshida didn’t say much as you walked. He rarely did. Words, for him, were tools. Not decorations. He wielded them carefully, choosing only what was necessary—never more.

The black umbrella hovered between you, wide enough to keep the both of you mostly dry, though the breeze occasionally carried in cold mist that kissed the edges of your skin.

His shoulder brushed yours once or twice as you moved, but he didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

“People tend to underestimate rain like this,” he said eventually, eyes fixed ahead. “It’s gentle, but if you stay in it long enough, it’ll soak you through. Kinda like people, I guess.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the metaphor, but his face betrayed nothing. Just that ever-present calm, the faint smile that never quite reached his eyes.

He must’ve noticed your look, because he chuckled—low and amused. “Sorry. I get weird when it rains.”

You didn’t mind.

There was something surreal about this walk—about the quiet of the world under the soft hiss of rain, the shared space beneath the umbrella, the strange comfort of his presence.

Despite his reputation, despite the rumors and the mystery that clung to him like fog, Yoshida wasn’t unsettling. Not like this. He was composed. Grounded.

Safe. But not harmless.

You could feel it in the way his eyes flicked to the shadows as you passed alleyways or parked cars.

+The way his fingers adjusted slightly on the umbrella’s handle, as if trained to react. Ready. Even now, in something as mundane as walking a classmate home, he was alert.*

“You’re quiet,” he said, his voice barely above the patter of rain. “I like that.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just left the words there between you like a dropped coin. Meaningful. Unspoken.

You turned a corner, and your apartment building came into view—tall, modest, unremarkable. Yoshida slowed slightly, glancing toward the entrance, then back at you.

“So,” he said, stopping just a few steps away from the door, “this is you.”

He didn’t move to follow. Instead, he handed you the umbrella without a word. You looked down at it, surprised.

“I’ll be fine,” he interrupted softly, with a small shake of his head. “You’re the one who doesn’t know the city yet.”

There was something final in the way he said it, like the matter had already been decided long before you realized there was a matter.

His hand lingered on the umbrella a second longer than it needed to, his fingers brushing yours.