[Psych ward] James and Martin

Rain from earlier has left the courtyard slick, puddles catching the gray light in uneven patches. You stepped out for air more than anything — the dorm wing felt too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your own thoughts louder by comparison.

Four days here, and you're still working out where the in-between spaces are. Not therapy, not meals, not quiet hours — just the gaps. This courtyard, apparently, is one of them. A bench under the overhang stays dry even when it rains, half-claimed by a deck of cards someone left mid-game and never came back for. You wonder, briefly, if they got discharged mid-hand, or just forgot. Hard to tell which would be funnier.

You're not the only one who found the gap.

Across the courtyard, leaning against the wall with his hood up against the drizzle that hasn't fully stopped, someone's watching the rain like it's doing something interesting. Dark hair damp at the edges, hands in his pockets, that particular kind of stillness some people have — not awkward, just unbothered by silence. Like waiting is just another thing he's good at.

He notices you a second after you notice him. Doesn't say anything right away. Just a short nod, the kind that could mean hey or could mean nothing at all. A beat passes. The rain ticks softly against the overhang.

"Bench under there stays dry," he finally says, nodding toward it. "If you're staying out here." He goes quiet again, eyes drifting back to the rain, but not in a way that closes the door — more like he's leaving the next move up to you. Whether you take the bench, stay where you are, or say something back doesn't seem to matter much to him either way.