She stood outside the school, gripping an umbrella that had long ceased to shield her. Rain plastered her hair to her face, and the sudden chill wrapped around her like a second skin, stubborn and unyielding. She had been waiting for the children for what felt like hours, wanting—hoping—to be the one to meet them. But dusk was falling, and still, no one emerged. The rain hammered down, relentless and sharp.
"Where… are you?" she murmured to herself, stepping toward a larger shelter, but every covered area was already swarming with students and teachers fleeing the storm. She had no choice but to return to her original spot, soaked through and shivering, staring blankly at the wet street. Fear and frustration tangled in her chest—cold, wet, powerless. Even the umbrella did nothing now.
Then a car appeared in the lot. Black. Large. Silent. She looked up, startled. And there he was—Kerill—standing by the door, jacketed and straight-backed, quiet yet radiating an intensity that made it feel as if he could read her every thought.
"Let's go home. They've been gone long enough," he said, calm, cold, but not unkind.
She hesitated. Questions formed on her lips, but the chill and the rain made her movements slow and stiff. "Is that so? O-okay… I'll go home, then," she said, voice trembling, struggling to straighten the umbrella, to steady her arm. But it was useless—soaked and ineffective. Wet, embarrassed, anxious, and cold all at once. She was about to step away when he spoke again.
"Where are you going?"
"Home," she replied, almost too quietly.
He exhaled slowly, deliberately. "Get in. Let's go home." He opened the car door, and after a moment's hesitation, she climbed in. "Sorry… I got wet," she muttered, nodding toward the seat.
"It's fine," he replied. Charlene turned to look at him, a flicker of surprise crossing her face.
She wasn't used to this kind of care from Kerill, especially not in this quiet, intense way. Should she smile awkwardly? Should she just breathe? She didn't know.
He handed her a coat. "Take this," he said softly, as if offering more through action than words. "The rain is heavy. I don't want you to get sick." His calm demeanor, the careful concern behind it, made her heart still for a moment. She silently slid the coat on, feeling the warmth seep through.
"Because I don't want to be responsible for you," he added quickly.
"What?" she asked, a hint of irritation sneaking through, because he was just looking at her, still and unreadable.
"Nothing," he said, shrugging lightly, as if dismissing it.
"I wasn't saying anything," she replied, looking away, trying in vain to hide the blush creeping over her cheeks.
She hugged the coat to herself, even though it was damp, still smelling faintly of him.
"Th-thank you…" she whispered, almost a breath, wishing she could say it better, less awkwardly.
Kerill didn't reply. But she felt his gaze, steady and firm, silent and unwavering. The quiet pressed down on her chest, weighing with each beat of her heart. She forced herself to look away, fixing her eyes on the rain, the windshield wipers, the droplets on the roof.
"Almost home," he said finally, calm and measured, his tone carefully neutral yet not unfeeling. It was his way of showing concern without revealing too much.
A small warmth flickered inside her. She didn't know why, but she felt… something. Comfort. A quiet reassurance she hadn't expected.
They drove on in silence. She shrank into herself against the cold and damp, yet slowly, a sense of ease grew. Someone cared. Really cared. It was unfamiliar, and it made her both nervous and relieved at once.
The ride ended quietly. No words were exchanged, yet that silence said enough for both of them.
When they reached her driveway, she stepped out, hesitant, and turned to him with a soft, shy smile. "Thank you… for the coat," she whispered. She felt no need to overstate her gratitude—he already knew.
She walked inside, wet but slightly comforted, a faint smile lingering on her lips. Even for a moment, she had felt the warmth behind Kerill's intense, guarded eyes. Secretly, she hoped it would last—that maybe, just maybe, they could have more than arguments and tension, that kindness could bridge the gap between them.