The rain starts just as the streetlights flicker on.

You don’t say anything at first. You just look up—watching the sky blur into silver strings—and exhale a quiet laugh. Figures. Of course it rains the one day you forget your umbrella.

“Y/N?” Riku’s voice cuts through the soft patter. You blink, and he’s already stepping closer, a navy umbrella in hand. His hair’s slightly damp from the few drops that caught him before he opened it.

“You’ll catch a cold like that,” he mumbles, pushing the umbrella toward you.

You hesitate. “What about you?”

He smiles, easy and small. “I’m not letting you walk home in this alone.”

You both fit beneath the umbrella, but just barely. Your shoulders brush every time he shifts. And he shifts a lot—clearing his throat, glancing sideways at you like he wants to say something but can’t find the right moment.

So you talk about everything else. What your teacher said today. That stray cat you keep seeing outside the convenience store. The strawberry bread you brought him last week and how he’s been craving it since.

And still, he keeps glancing over. Like he wants to say more.

Finally, at the crosswalk, he murmurs it: “You know… if it rains again tomorrow, I won’t mind.”

You look at him. “Why?”

He doesn’t meet your gaze. Just shrugs a little and says, “I’ll get to walk you home again.”

Your heart skips. Just once. But loud enough that the silence feels full.