Mikey had a strange talent: he could sense rain the same way he sensed when you walked into a room. Which meant anytime the sky darkened, he somehow ended up near you. Even before you noticed. He hated umbrellas. He never remembered to bring one. But he always remembered to stand close enough to get under yours.

One afternoon the rain came down in sheets, sudden and loud. You rushed to open your umbrella — and before you even lifted it fully— Mikey slid underneath it like he’d teleported. His hair dripping, shirt soaked, but completely unbothered. You told him he should’ve waited inside. He shrugged, standing so close your shoulders touched. “…I don’t like rain unless you’re here.” He didn’t move away the whole walk.