Chapter Text
"Love is not merely a feeling; it is an act of the will. It is a choice."
—Fulton J. Sheen
The rain started halfway through Jon’s walk home.
It wasn’t a dramatic downpour—just that quiet kind of drizzle that mutes the world and paints everything in soft gray. Wet asphalt shimmered like cheap silver, and puddles trembled with each falling drop. Jon pulled his hoodie tighter over his head, but it didn’t help much. The fabric was already soggy, clinging to his arms like second skin. His socks squished in his sneakers.
He sighed.
The park path he took as a shortcut was nearly empty, the wooden benches slick with water, leaves dripping onto them like tiny fingers. A quiet shiver threaded up Jon’s spine, but not from the cold. Something… off. Like the way your stomach sinks before thunder.
He almost missed it.
The bird was curled beneath a trash bin near the path’s edge, feathers puffed and wet, a tremble going through its tiny body. One wing jutted out at a strange angle—wrong, wrong, wrong. Its black eyes darted up when Jon stopped, but it didn’t fly away.
Didn’t move.
Jon’s breath caught.
He crouched slowly, palms down like he was calming a scared cat. “Hey, little guy,” he whispered, the rain making his voice sound smaller. “What happened to you…?”
The bird gave no answer, but it didn’t flee. Jon stared, eyes wide behind his rain-splattered glasses. For a second, he just stood there in the rain, feeling it gather and slide from his hood, drip onto his neck, down his collar.
Then, carefully—like he was picking up something that might break even more—he sat down.
Right there on the wet grass.
The bird stayed still. Jon stayed stiller.
The rain kept falling.
Jon blinked water from his lashes and slid his backpack off. He didn’t try to touch the bird. Just sat with it, knees drawn up, hands resting loosely in his lap. His jeans were soaked now, sticking to his skin. Cold had started to find him, creeping into his fingers and wriggling up his spine like a worm. He rubbed his palms together, breath fogging in the gray air.
“Dunno what to do,” he murmured to the bird. “You’re hurt. Can’t leave you. But… I don’t have, like, bird splints or anything.”
The bird blinked slowly. Jon tilted his head.
“I could try to carry you home,” he offered, uncertain. “But you might be scared. Might make it worse.”
The bird gave a soft puff of air. It wasn’t a chirp, exactly—but Jon smiled like it was.
A breeze stirred the trees overhead, sending droplets scattering in little bursts. Jon winced as some hit his neck and slid down his shirt. “I bet you’re cold too,” he said softly. His voice was the only sound besides the quiet whisper of rain and the gentle squish of sodden leaves underfoot.
He unzipped his hoodie.
It was dumb, maybe, but he tugged it off, teeth chattering as the cold clung to his now bare arms. Then, slowly, he folded it and eased it toward the bird.
“You can use this,” he said. “If you want. I mean—it’s gross, but warmer than the ground, maybe?”
To his shock, the bird didn’t flinch. It leaned ever so slightly toward the hoodie, feathers ruffling. Jon bit his lip, eyes wide.
He pulled his knees in, hugging them now to stay warm. His breath came in tiny clouds.
Minutes passed.
The world blurred to nothing but the soft patter of rain, the shivering cold in his limbs, and the tiny rise and fall of the bird’s body. Jon didn’t speak anymore. Just sat. Waiting.
Something shifted.
Not in the bird—but in him.
Because somehow, it didn’t feel like waiting. It felt like being. Like sharing silence without needing to fix it. Like keeping someone company just because they needed it, even if they never said so.
The rain began to ease.
The heavy clouds grew a little paler, and the drip-drip-drip from the trees slowed. Jon was soaked through, fingertips wrinkled like he’d been in the bath too long, but he didn’t move.
He heard footsteps before he saw them.
“Jon?” a familiar voice called from the trail’s curve.
It was Matt. Holding a ridiculous neon umbrella shaped like a frog. His face twisted when he spotted Jon. “DUDE! What the heck?!”
Jon didn’t answer right away. Just glanced at the bird.
Matt jogged over, shoes splashing. “You’re sitting in the mud! You’re freezing! Are you crying?!”
“No,” Jon said simply, pushing up his glasses. “I found him. He’s hurt.”
Matt blinked. “A bird?”
Jon looked down again. “I didn’t wanna leave him alone. He looked like it hurt too much.”
Matt’s mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. Then he looked at Jon—really looked—and deflated. His voice dropped. “...You’ve been here the whole time?”
Jon nodded, small and tired.
Matt was quiet a moment, then knelt beside him with a dramatic sigh. “You’re lucky I came looking. Edd would’ve panicked. Tord would've yelled. I would’ve… drawn a cartoon of you drowning dramatically.”
“You still might,” Jon mumbled, but there was a twitch of a smile.
Matt looked at the bird. “It’s not gonna make it, you know. Not out here.”
Jon swallowed. “I know.”
Matt glanced at his hoodie, wrapped like a nest around the bird. Then, softer, “Let’s take it to the vet. There’s that wildlife one near Edd’s. I’ll help you carry it.”
Jon hesitated, hands gentle as he scooped the bird into the hoodie’s folds.
The creature didn’t fight.
Just shivered once—then stilled.
Later, at the animal clinic, the vet would say the bird might make it. Not a promise. But might.
And as they left, both dripping, Jon sniffled.
Not because he was cold. Not because of the rain still clinging to his lashes.
But because in a world full of broken things, sometimes staying mattered.
Even if it was just with a little bird in the rain.