—Naoaki's POV—
I didn't mean to stay that late after school.
It started with an extra shift in the library, then turned into helping a first-year find their way, and before I knew it, the corridors were empty and the skies were bleeding soft hues of grey and violet. The rain hadn't stopped from the morning—if anything, it had gotten heavier.
I stepped outside, umbrella in hand, only to find someone standing under the bus stop, drenched.
It was him.
Ren Tsukihara.
Of course it was him.
He was soaked to the bone, blazer clinging to his frame, his dark bangs plastered across his forehead. Despite that, he still looked unfairly good—tall, sharp-jawed, broad-shouldered in a way that made the rain look like it was falling for him.
I didn't know whether to laugh or ask if he had a death wish.
"You forgot your umbrella again?" I asked, approaching cautiously.
He didn't even glance at me. "Didn't forget. Just didn't care."
I stared at him. "You'll catch a cold."
Ren shrugged. "Not the worst thing that could happen."
That silence between us stretched again—awkward, raw, threaded with things we weren't saying.
I stepped closer and extended my umbrella toward him.
"Share?"
He glanced at the umbrella, then at me. His expression unreadable. He didn't answer—just took a step forward, into the space beneath it.
We stood shoulder to shoulder under the small canopy of fabric. Too close. Our elbows almost brushed.
> Why does this feel familiar? Why does standing next to him like this make my chest ache in a way I can't name?
The train station was three blocks away.
We walked in silence for the first two.
Then, finally, Ren spoke.
"You dream a lot?"
His voice was low. Quieter than usual.
I blinked, surprised. "Sometimes."
He looked at me, eyes narrowed. "Ever about things YOU… shouldn't remember?"
My breath caught. For a second, I forgot how to walk.
"Why?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
"No reason." He looked away again. "Just… wondering."
We reached the platform just as the train pulled away.
Of course we missed it.
"Another thirty minutes," I muttered, checking the schedule.
Ren slid his hands into his pockets and leaned against the wall like he didn't mind at all. I, on the other hand, was painfully aware of how cold my fingers were—and how close he was again.
We didn't talk for a long time. Just stood there, watching the rain streak down the glass of the station window. The kind of silence that should be uncomfortable, but wasn't.
> It's strange how the quiet feels less empty when he's near.
Eventually, I broke it.
"You ever feel like we've done this before?"
Ren turned slowly to look at me.
His eyes didn't blink.
Didn't soften.
"…Yeah," he said, finally. "More than once."
And for a second, I thought—maybe he remembered too.
But he turned his face away again and didn't say anything else.
We shared the ride home that day. Sat two seats apart, but it was the closest we'd ever been.
He didn't say goodbye when he got off.
But he looked back once.
And somehow, that felt louder than any goodbye ever could.