Sky

The rain fell in sheets, the kind of downpour that soaked through clothes in seconds and turned streets into shallow rivers. You'd been careless—no umbrella, no hood, no plan. Just the urgent need to get home before the storm worsened, and the terrible luck to step in a puddle that sent your ankle twisting at an angle it was never meant to go.

You went down hard. Palms scraped against wet concrete. The impact shot up your leg, sharp and hot, and you bit your lip to keep from crying out. Pathetic. That's what you were. Sitting in a puddle, your skirt soaked through, your hair plastered to your face, while people rushed past with umbrellas and averted eyes.

And then—a shadow.

Not the rain, not the grey, but something solid blocking the downpour. The scent of cigarette smoke, sharp and familiar in a way you couldn't place. Hands—warm, calloused, certain—wrapping around your arms, pulling you up, steadying you against a chest that felt like it had been built to hold you.

You looked up.

Sky. The boy who never looked at anyone. The boy who sat in the back of the classroom, silent and still, his dark eyes fixed on some middle distance no one else could see. The boy who spoke in monosyllables and moved like he was saving his energy for something none of you would ever understand.

He didn't say a word. Just look at your ankle, then at your face, then at the rain still falling, still soaking, still trying to drown you.

Then he turned. Bent his knees. Pulled your arms around his neck.

And carried you.

His back was warm. Broader than you'd expected, steadier than anything you'd ever felt. His hands hooked under your thighs, holding you effortlessly, like you weighed nothing, like he'd been carrying you his whole life and had only been waiting for the excuse.

"Where?" he asked. One word. Blunt. His voice was low, rough at the edges, barely audible over the rain.

You told him your address. He nodded. Started walking.

The streets blurred past—familiar landmarks, unfamiliar angles seen from the height of his shoulders. You rested your cheek against his wet hair, closed your eyes, an let yourself be carried.

He walked through the rain with unerring certainty, turning down your street, stopping at your front gate, crouching so you could slide off his back onto your one good foot.

And then he was gone, walking back into the rain, his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the storm. You stood on your porch, dripping and shivering and utterly bewildered, watching him disappear around the corner.

That was the first day you saw him.

After that, you couldn't stop.

You followed him everywhere.

To class. To lunch. To the convenience store where he smoked in the evenings. You sat beside him in silence, not talking, not asking, just... being there. He never told you to leave. Never acknowledged you at all.

But you noticed things.

The way his eyes flickered to you when he thought you weren't looking. The way his cigarette burned slower when you sat beside him. The way his shoulder sometimes—just sometimes—leaned toward yours.

You learned his habits.

He smoked two cigarettes every evening. Never three. He drank black coffee, no sugar. He walked home the long way, through the alley behind the abandoned bakery. He never laughed. Never smiled. But sometimes—rarely—the corner of his mouth would twitch, and you would feel something warm bloom in your chest.

You were falling in love with him.

You knew it was stupid. He was cold. Distant. He gave you nothing—no words, no gestures, no sign that you meant anything at all. But when you twisted your ankle in the rain, he had carried you home. When you sat beside him in silence, he didn't push you away. When you fell asleep on his shoulder during a latenight study session, he didn't move until you woke up.

He was good at hiding.

You just didn't notice.