Rain arrived earlier that week.
Aiyumi didn't carry an umbrella — she always forgot.
Ren still waited, as usual, by the gate, droplets running down his hair.
He saw her rushing with her books over her head, laughing softly to herself,
and for a moment, his cold mask cracked.
He held out his umbrella silently.
She hesitated, then stepped under it — a thin space of quiet air between them.
They didn't talk.
The only sound was the rain hitting plastic and the faint rhythm of their footsteps.
At the college gate, she smiled — a tired, tiny smile.
"Thanks."
He only nodded, but something flickered in his eyes,
something she hadn't seen in months — warmth.
Later that day, the clouds grew darker.
Everyone hurried to leave campus, but Aiyumi stayed back in the art room,
finishing a sketch for the cultural fest poster.
By the time she packed up, it was already pouring.
She tried calling Ren — no response.
Her phone battery blinked red.
She sighed, grabbed her bag, and stepped into the rain.
The roads were nearly empty.
The downpour blurred the lights,
and halfway home, she slipped — her ankle twisting.
Pain shot up her leg; she winced, trying to stand.
That's when headlights cut through the rain.
A bike stopped beside her.
Ren removed his helmet — completely drenched.
"I told you not to walk alone."
He didn't wait for her to speak.
He helped her onto the bike, shielding her from the rain with his jacket.
His voice was low but steady.
"You're impossible sometimes."
She wanted to reply, to explain, to say how sorry she still was —
but her throat felt tight.
So instead, she whispered,
"…Thanks, Ren."
He didn't answer.
But when she looked sideways,
she saw him smile — barely, but real.
The next morning, she found a folded paper in her bag.
It wasn't signed.
Just one short line written in neat handwriting she knew too well:
"Stop walking alone. Some people still care."
Her chest ached —
not with pain,
but with the soft reminder that maybe,
even if words failed them,
their bond hadn't disappeared completely.