Rain falls the next morning — soft, steady, almost polite.
The kind of rain that doesn't stop practice, but slows everything down.
Aoi sits beneath the awning of the track bleachers, her crutches leaning against the bench. A clear umbrella rests beside her, dotted with drops. The world smells of wet earth and chalk.
She's supposed to be inside. Coach Minobe told her as much. But watching the others run makes her leg ache less.
Ren notices her from across the field while loading the equipment shed. He doesn't call out — just walks over, umbrella in hand.
"You're not supposed to be here," he says when he reaches her.
"I'm sitting. Not running."
"It's still against orders."
"Then arrest me."
He gives her a look. "You'd probably try to outrun the cuffs."
She smirks. "You'd be surprised."
He opens his umbrella and sets it over her head.
Aoi blinks. "What about you?"
"I'm waterproof."
The rain shifts sideways, tapping against their shoes. The field ripples silver.
"You really like watching them, huh?" Ren asks.
She nods. "It's weird not being out there. I feel like a ghost."
"Ghosts usually move on."
"Then I guess I'm the stubborn kind."
He sits on the step below her, elbows resting on his knees.
From this angle, she can see the faint scar on his right wrist — thin, like an old rope mark. She wonders what kind of story it carries, but says nothing.
Minutes pass in easy silence.
The runners finish their drills, laughter echoing faintly through the drizzle.
Ren glances up. "You ever just… walk in the rain?"
"Not on purpose."
"You should try it sometime."
"Why?"
"It's the one time everyone looks the same — wet, cold, and too busy to care."
She tilts her head, half amused. "You say weird things."
"I've had a lot of time to practice them."
A small laugh escapes her before she catches it. "You sound like an old man."
"I feel like one most days."
He says it lightly, but there's something tired underneath. A weight.
The same one she's been pretending not to notice.
Later, in the infirmary, she's more talkative.
Maybe it's the rain, or the way the air smells cleaner after it.
"Do you ever miss it?" she asks again, mid-stretch.
Ren doesn't answer right away. He's fixing the strap on her brace.
"I miss the part before the sound," he says finally.
"What?"
"When you're waiting for the gun. Everything goes quiet. You forget to breathe."
Her gaze softens. "That's my favorite part too."
For a second, the world narrows to the sound of rain on glass and their synchronized breathing. The moment is so small they almost miss it.
When she leaves, Coach Minobe catches Ren at the door.
"She's healing fast," the coach says.
"She's stubborn."
"Same thing, sometimes."
Minobe's expression shifts — not exactly a smile, but something knowing. "You're good with her. Careful, but good."
Ren shrugs. "I just follow protocol."
The coach studies him for a beat longer. "Protocol doesn't make people laugh, Hayama."
Ren doesn't answer.
That evening, Aoi texts him for the first time.
Aoi: I did the exercises.
Ren: Any pain?
Aoi: Only emotional.
Ren: That's not in the manual.
Aoi: You should write a new one then.
Ren: Working on it.
She stares at the screen for a while after his last message, unsure if it was a joke. Unsure why it made her smile.
Outside, the rain has stopped. The pavement gleams like water.
She puts down her phone and opens her window.
The air smells like spring again.