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Shime pulls his hand back under the awning. There are small droplets of water scattered across his palm that confirm his fears. Rain. And it’s getting heavier by the second. The café is at least a twenty minute walk away, and he’ll be damned if he’s ruining his perfectly set bangs for some stupid unexpected rain.
Shime looks around, straining his neck to find a convenience store, or any store, selling umbrellas. It’s not a busy station, so there’s not a lot of choices. There’s a ramen shop, two bakeries and one very empty taxi stop. No umbrellas.
Shime sighs. If only he hadn’t accidentally left his phone on his bedside table. By now he could have called Shizuya and been given a royal chauffeur to their meeting place. If only he hadn’t been stubborn and refused Shizuya’s offer for a lift in the first place.
Shime looks around one more time, hoping a taxi or convenience store has magically appeared out of nowhere in the last two minutes. As expected though, there is nothing but the dreary darkness of rain clouds and the ever deepening puddles on the ground.
After another five long minutes of contemplating, Shime mourns for his beautiful fluffy fringe as he takes a single step out into the open, awaiting the inevitable feeling of the droplets hitting his head. But they don’t come. Instead he hears the clear popping sound of rain hitting plastic.
Shime looks up in confusion. The umbrella over his head was definitely not there a second ago, and he would know. He had been futilely looking for one for the last ten minutes. His gaze travels slowly down into the deep dark eyes of a stranger. The man in front of him is not holding any real expression, nothing definable anyways. Just a blank stare Shime’s way.
His lips start moving, but all Shime can hear is the onslaught of raindrops bouncing off the umbrella above him. The stranger seems to be waiting for him to react, but Shime finds himself frozen in place, those eyes searing right into him. He tells himself to move, to speak, to do anything, but his usual self-assured demeanour doesn’t come.
With a small amused smirk, the stranger takes Shime’s hand and wraps it around the umbrella handle, his soft fingers lingering over Shime’s. It’s a moment that feels like hours to Shime, yet he still can’t find his breath enough to ask the stranger to repeat himself. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Another moment, and the stranger is running out into the rain, a jacket pulled over his head.
Shime stares out after the man, wondering now if God had just sent him a smug-ass little angel to save his perfect fringe.
“Thank you,” Shime says up into the sky.
Even the heavens understand the importance of a good hair day.