The library's quiet air clung to me as I stepped outside.
Walking outside the campus, I found myself anchored to the ground amidst the falling rain. The umbrella I held as I went to college was already opened, covering me from the cold feeling that shivered my spine.
The rain made me remember something I didn't like.
Y#£ &*"raye& m#
The words were fragmented in my mind.
How could he be so restless about something so small? It's not like I took advantage of him.
The same thought looped in my mind.
My fingers tightened around the book I had taken, its spine pressing into my palm like a magnet. I should have gone straight back to the dorms. I should have disappeared into silence. Yet as I walked toward the gate, I caught sight of him again.
Vincent.
He was crouched beside his bike, adjusting the chain with measured hands, movements too practiced, too exact for a boy our age. His gaze flicked up briefly when he noticed me, then just as quickly back to the wheel.
I hesitated. My steps slowed.
The air between us was taut, stretched like the moment before a string snaps. I could have walked past without a word, as if the encounter in the library had been nothing. But instead—
"You ride too fast," I said. My voice was steady, but the memory of screeching tires still echoed in my chest.
He didn't look at me right away. His hands tightened the last bolt, fingers smudged faintly with grease. "And you walk without looking."
A parry. Flat, curt. Yet his eyes when they finally lifted were sharp, watching me as though weighing whether I would shatter.
The words landed heavier than they should.
My lips pressed together. "You almost hit me."
"You almost got hit."
He corrected flatly, finally raising his eyes.
They were sharp, too sharp, but blank at the same time—like he was alive and absent all at once.
Silence stretched between us. I could have left. Should have. But instead, I drew closer.
"…Why didn't you just swerve?" I asked, my voice lower now, as if I feared the answer.
"Because you froze." His tone was calm, not cruel. Like he was stating a fact neither of us could deny.
The memory jolted through me — my body rigid, my lungs locked, the screech of rubber searing the air. My fists tightened around the umbrella handle.
"Maybe I did."
"Maybe you did?" A faint lift of his brow. "People who hesitate in the middle of the road don't get a second chance. Are you stupid?"
Something inside me flinched. Second chance. Did he mean it literally? Or…
"You talk like you've seen it before," I murmured.
His gaze lingered on me, unreadable. "Haven't you?"
The words sank too deep. My breath caught, but I refused to show it. "I've seen… enough."
He studied me then, really studied me.
Not the surface, not the ribbon at my collar or the straight line of my sleeves. His eyes dug deeper, like he was searching for something only he knew how to find.
"Then why did you still freeze?" he asked quietly. "Stopping and freezing in the middle of the road is akin to dying or being fatally injured, that should've been taught to you—ms. can't-climb-a-ladder."
The rain tapped against my umbrella, a steady percussion to his irritation.
And with the nickname he branded to me, something inside of me ticked.
"I did not freeze," I answered simply.
Vincent's brow furrowed. "You literally did. You stood there like a statue waiting to die."
"No." I shook my head once. "A statue has no choice. I chose not to move."
"That's not—" He stopped himself, dragging a hand through his hair as if trying to pull out patience strand by strand. "That's not how it works."
"It worked. You stopped."
"That's not proof of anything! I stopped because I didn't want your blood on my hands."
I tilted my head, watching him with quiet interest. "Then my method succeeded."
His eye twitched. "Your method—? Standing in the middle of the street waiting for me to save you?"
"Yes." My tone didn't waver, as though it were the most logical conclusion in the world.
"…You're insane."
"I am a normal human."
He stared at me like he wanted to throttle the word out of me. "No. Insane. Completely out of your mind."
"Lovable human, then."
I let the faintest curve tug at the corner of my lips. His expression twisted—caught between disbelief and fury.
"Do you even listen to yourself?" he demanded.
"Always," I replied, calm as the rain.
There was a silence. His breathing heavier, mine steady. The rain ran down between us, dripping from the edge of my umbrella.
Finally, he leaned against the bike, arms crossed, glaring like I was the most irritating puzzle he'd ever been forced to solve. "You know, you can't just expect the world to bend for you."
"I don't expect it."
"Good. Because it won't."
"I know." I paused, letting the moment hang. "It just happens."
His mouth opened, then closed again. No rebuttal. Just raw disbelief.
"What the fuck…?" he muttered under his breath, almost to himself.
The drizzle softened, thinning into mist. I watched the raindrops scatter across the ground, then shifted my umbrella slightly so that its shadow cut across him.
"You're welcome," I said.
"For what?"
"For stopping."
His glare deepened. My faint smile lingered.
* * *
The drizzle softened into mist, as if the sky itself had grown tired. Arishu tilted her umbrella, water sliding off its ribs in steady trickles that splattered by Vincent's shoe.
"You're welcome," she said plainly.
Vincent's jaw tightened. "You think sharing an umbrella makes us even?"
"It doesn't," she replied. "It makes you dry."
He stared at her for a beat, then muttered something under his breath and swung a leg over his bike. But he didn't pedal away. His gaze flicked toward the main road, then back to her.
"You're headed east?" he asked.
She blinked, a calm, measured pause. "Yes. Why?"
"That's my way."
Her answer was immediate. "Then you'll ride slow."
His head snapped toward her. "What?"
"You almost hit me once. If you're riding beside me, you'll ride slow."
For a moment he simply stared, disbelief simmering under the surface. "You think I'm going to ride alongside you?"
"Yes."
He swore that he was gonna pick up the car he drove in the past life to his death and slam himself into this woman—
No. I'm not your chauffeur."
"I didn't say chauffeur. I said rider. They're different."
"…You're impossible."
"Lovable," she corrected without hesitation.
Vincent's eye twitched, but when Arishu started walking, his bike wheels rolled at her pace. He could have left her in the rain. He didn't.
—
The street shimmered with puddles reflecting neon light, every passing car washing the asphalt with brief streaks of color. Arishu's umbrella tapped faintly in the wind, the silence between them both heavy and brittle.
Vincent kept his bike just ahead, then slowed whenever her steps threatened to fall behind.
His posture was too exact, his movements too practiced — not the careless looseness of a boy, but the honed control of someone who had lived under weight.
"You walk like someone's watching you," he said suddenly, eyes fixed ahead.
"They are."
He glanced around — empty sidewalks, only the rain's remnants and traffic noise. "…Who?"
"Everyone."
His lips curved in a scoff. "You think you're that important?"
"I know I am."
"Arrogant."
"Confident."
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Her words struck like dull blades — not sharp enough to cut, but relentless, impossible to ignore.
Then her voice softened. "What about you?"
He didn't look at her. "What about me?"
"You ride like someone's chasing you."
The words made his grip on the handlebar tighten. The air grew heavier.
"Maybe they are," he said finally.
He spoke it like truth, not jest. A calm confession no one was meant to hear.
Arishu tilted her head, her gaze steady beneath the shelter of her umbrella. "Then why ride toward home?"
His eyes snapped to her, sharp, guarded. "…What makes you think I'm going home?"
"You're not?"
A pause. Then, followed reluctant look and resignation: "Same direction. Same neighborhood."
Her lips curved the slightest bit. "So it's fate."
"Don't start with fate." His voice was almost a warning.
"I didn't," she said, eyes forward again. "You did. You're following me."
"You're—" He cut himself off, dragging a hand over his face. "I am about to placate you across the neighbourhood if you don't sh—."
"Oh, look. Cream puffs."
She didn't bother understanding or acknowledging his threat as she found her way across the street towards a pastry.
Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose. "Is this woman real..?"
Still, his tires hissed against the pavement as he followed. He leaned his bike against the shop wall, muttering something low and sharp, though the sound of bells above the pastry door swallowed his words.
The shop was warm, golden. Glass cases gleamed with rows of delicate pastries, sugar-dusted crowns, and cream-filled shells. The scent of butter and vanilla cut through the lingering chill of rain.
Arishu pressed close to the display, gaze unblinking. "Two."
Vincent raised a brow. "You're buying?"
"Of course."
The cashier blinked as Arishu spoke with perfect composure, ordering as though she owned the place. Her umbrella dripped gently onto the tiled floor, and she didn't seem to notice.
Vincent stood a step behind, silent, watching her hand glide across the counter as she pulled a sleek wallet from her bag — real leather, polished, no hesitation in the bills she slid across. Wealth was second nature to her, not boastful, but woven into every movement.
When the cream puffs were placed neatly into a paper box, she turned, expression still even. "Here."
Vincent blinked. "What?"
She extended the box. "Take it."
"I don't—"
"You followed me. Payment."
He stared at her. "I didn't follow you. We live in the same direction."
"And yet, here you are. Same roof, same rain, same pastries." She tilted her head faintly. "That's called fate."
He dragged a hand down his face again, but reluctantly, his fingers brushed the box. "…You're insufferable."
"Lova—"
"Yah, yah. Lovable. Shut up..."
* * *
They left the shop together, the drizzle having thinned to a cool mist. Vincent balanced the pastry box one-handed while steering his bike with the other, the chain clicking in steady rhythm.
Arishu walked beside him, umbrella tilted, her steps unhurried. Around them, the neighborhood began to shift — the narrow streets widened, houses grew larger, walls higher, gates iron-wrought and gleaming from the rain.
It was subtle, but Vincent noticed. Her direction wasn't just familiar. It was the route into the wealthier district.
He glanced at her. She caught the look immediately.
"What?"
"You live here?"
"Yes."
Her answer was simple, unadorned, but the surrounding architecture filled in the blanks: trimmed hedges, polished cars, stone driveways.
Vincent clicked his tongue faintly, eyes forward again. His own place, he knew, was further down — not squalid, not broken, but modest. A place where grease and worn tools belonged, where every coin mattered.
Arishu's gaze flicked toward him, calm, unreadable. "You don't."
He swore to god that he was gonna give up whatever he planned in this life just to—
Vincent cut the thought off, jaw tightening. It was dangerous, even to himself. He had walked these streets once, not as a passerby but as a man who owned—contracts, buildings, names etched on brass plates. All gone now. All stripped away when the gun was in his hand, when the rooftop wind had howled in his ears.
Now he was just a boy again, balancing cream puffs in a box.
"Not anymore," he muttered, almost without thinking.
Her head turned slightly at that. The umbrella tilted, casting her face in shadow, though her eyes glinted through. "Anymore?"
Vincent cursed himself silently. He kept his gaze ahead. "Don't read into it."
"I didn't say I was."
The way she said it, though—measured, clipped, as though she had already decided something about him—itched under his skin.
"…You're irritating."
"You're talking to me."
"Because you won't shut up."
"And yet you answer."
His eyes narrowed. He almost wanted to laugh—it was like slamming his words against a wall that didn't budge, didn't even chip. She absorbed every strike and threw it back with that same serene tone, as though she wasn't the least bit bothered.
"You think you're clever," he muttered.
"No," she replied smoothly. "I know I'm right."
Vincent dragged a hand down his face. What the fuck…
The silence that followed was brief but taut, carrying them past another row of towering gates.
Finally, she spoke again, almost idly: "You're hiding something."
His steps faltered just slightly. "…And you aren't?"
That earned him the faintest curve of her lips. Not a smile—too sharp for that. More like acknowledgment. A chess player amused her opponent had noticed the board at all.
The gate ahead opened then, tall iron and gold crest gleaming wet in the mist. Guards straightened as Arishu stepped forward without hesitation, the umbrella lowering as though she had walked this path a thousand times before.
She turned once at the threshold, gaze catching his.
"You should eat those quickly. They collapse if left too long."
It was such a trivial statement, but the weight in her eyes wasn't.
Vincent's grip on the pastry box tightened. He looked down at it, then back at her, but she was already gone, the iron gate closing behind her like a curtain falling on a stage.
He stood there a long moment, rain misting against his jacket, before finally muttering under his breath—
"…This is going to be a problem."