The rain didn't start with a warning. As the rehearsal ended, a sudden, heavy downpour slammed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the hall, turning the world outside into a blurred smear of grey and neon. The students lingered near the exit, grumbling about wet shoes and ruined plans.
Seo-yoon stood by her locker, tugging her lavender hoodie over her bun. She felt a strange buzzing under her skin, a mixture of the intense practice and the lingering frustration of being "hovered over" by a man who seemed to take up all the oxygen in the room.
As she pushed through the heavy glass doors to leave, she realized the rain was far worse than it looked. It was a torrential Suzhou curtain. She pulled her hood up and prepared to run for it, but a tall shadow stepped into her periphery.
Yan-chen was standing under the narrow concrete overhang of the building. He had swapped his knit sweater for a structured, sand-colored trench coat that hit just above his knees. He looked like he belonged in a high-end editorial, not a damp university courtyard. He was staring at the rain with a detached, clinical expression.
"You'll get soaked," he said. He didn't look at her, but the tilt of his head toward her was unmistakable.
"I'm used to the rain. Busan is a coastal city," Seo-yoon replied, stepping out into the first few drops.
Before she could take another step, Yan-chen moved. In one fluid motion, he opened a large, sturdy umbrella—not black, but a deep forest green. He stepped down from the ledge, holding it high. Because of the height difference, he had to reach up quite a bit just to keep the edge from hitting her head, but then he did that thing again.
He leaned down, his face descending into her personal space as he tilted his head to look her in the eye.
"Busan rain is salt. Suzhou rain is stone," he said, his voice dropping into that low, teasing register. "Don't be stubborn. The walk to the Pingjiang district is twenty minutes. You won't make it five."
He didn't wait for her permission. He started walking, effectively forcing her to stay under the canopy of the umbrella or be left in the deluge. Seo-yoon had no choice but to match his stride.
The walk was quiet, save for the rhythmic thrum-thrum of the rain against the fabric above them. To anyone passing by, they looked like a perfectly composed pair—the tall, elegant local and the petite, focused foreigner. But inside that small circle of dry air, the tension was thick.
Yan-chen was a difficult person to walk with. His legs were long, his pace naturally fast, yet he slowed himself down to accommodate her shorter steps. Every time she veered slightly toward the edge of the umbrella, he would adjust, his shoulder brushing against hers. Because he had to keep the umbrella tilted to cover her properly, he was constantly leaning toward her, his jawline practically hovering near her temple.
"Why are you doing this?" Seo-yoon asked, her voice muffled by the rain. "You don't even like me. You think I'm just a 'distraction' in your workshop."
Yan-chen didn't answer immediately. He navigated them around a deep puddle, his hand momentarily finding the small of her back to guide her.
"I don't like disorder," he finally said, tilting his head down so close that she could see the dampness on his eyelashes. "And seeing you run through the rain like a panicked bird is... disorderly."
Seo-yoon let out a sharp, indignant breath. "A panicked bird? Is that how you see me?"
"I see someone who tries very hard to look like she isn't lost," he countered.
They reached the entrance of her building. The rain was still coming down in sheets. Yan-chen stood on the sidewalk, the umbrella still held firmly over both of them. He looked down at her, the usual coldness in his eyes replaced by that keen, piercing interest. He didn't move away. He stayed in that tilted, hovering position, as if he were waiting for her to say something—or perhaps waiting for her to ask him to stay.
"Goodnight, Yan-chen," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
"Goodnight, Scriptwriter," he replied.
He stayed there until she disappeared behind the heavy wooden doors of her apartment. As Seo-yoon climbed the stairs, she touched her shoulder where his coat had brushed against her. She felt a strange, unsettling heat. She realized she didn't know his favorite color, his middle name, or why he hated "disorder" so much—but she knew exactly how it felt to be protected by his shadow.