Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rain, Mio decides, is only romantic when you're watching it from the inside.

From here, under the chipped metal roof of a neighborhood bus stop in some quiet corner of Tokyo, it's just loud. The downpour is a full-body sound, drumming over tin, hammering the asphalt so hard the street looks like it's boiling. The air smells like wet concrete. The fluorescent tube above her flickers like it's afraid of commitment.

And she is very aware that her shirt is see-through.

She hunches closer to the timetable pole, as if moral support from the bus schedule will make her less visible. It doesn't. The glass behind her throws her reflection back in pieces: dark hair sticking to her cheeks, bangs damp, pale collarbones, white button-down clinging in all the wrong places.

Of course today of all days she had worn the white shirt.

It had made sense this morning. First week of second semester, first seminar with a strict professor, and she'd thought: look respectable, don't look like a ghost who practices bass all night and forgets fabric softener exists. So. White shirt, navy skirt instead of her usual jeans, neat bra that doesn't show under it.

Under normal weather.

Today, the weather had decided to improvise.

Now the fabric is plastered to her skin, cool and heavy, outlining everything. The pale blue of her bra. The shape under it that she spends a lot of time pretending doesn't draw attention. She shifts her tote bag, tries to angle it in front of her chest without looking like she's angling it in front of her chest.

No one's on the street. That's the one mercy. The neighborhood is residential and sleepy; the only movement is water racing along the gutter like it has somewhere to be. Cars are a distant hiss. The nearest convenience store is two corners away, its sign a blurry smear in the rain. She's all alone, which is a welcome miracle because Ritsu would never let her live this down if she knew Mio was at a bus stop in a see-through shirt.

She glances up at the digital sign above the timetable.

Next bus: 13 minutes.

Thirteen years, more like. Thirteen whole minutes of standing here like a damp exhibition. Her teeth graze her lower lip. She considers walking; immediately imagines her shoes filling with water, her skirt sagging, and the wind doing something horrible with her umbrella. She stays.

The thin October breeze snakes under the shelter, and goosebumps race across her arms. She hugs herself, partly for warmth, partly because it feels like her body might fall apart if she doesn't physically hold it together.

It's fine, she tells herself. No one's looking. It's just you and the rain and this stupid fluorescent light. You're one with the bus stop. You're invisible. You—

Footsteps slap through the downpour.

She hears them before she sees anything, a rapid, splashing staccato getting closer. Someone running full tilt down the sidewalk, cutting through puddles like they're in a commercial for athletic shoes or terrible decisions.

Mio straightens, heart lurching. Her first thought is, I hope they don't see. Her second is, that's stupid, of course they will, the universe has a personal vendetta.

A figure bursts into view at the edge of the shelter, a blur behind a curtain of rain. Then the blur is suddenly, violently present: someone darts under the roof, momentum almost sending them skidding past the bench. They stop with a half-stumble, one sneaker squeaking wetly against the concrete.

"Joder," the stranger wheezes, bending double, hands braced on their knees.

Mio blinks.

Black tee, absolutely soaked, clinging to a compact torso. Jeans several shades darker from water. A backpack slung over one shoulder, dripping. Short ash-brown hair plastered to their head in a wet, ridiculous halo, like someone gelled it stylishly and then dumped a bucket over them.

The person is breathing like they just chased the last bus on earth and lost. Which, judging from the empty road in front of them, might actually be true.

Mio presses herself further against the timetable pole and tries to shrink into the typography.

The stranger is busy catching their breath, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving. They mutter something else under their breath, words tangled and fast, not quite Japanese. Spanish? It sounds like Spanish. Mio's only reference is that one drama Mugi made them watch where everyone was hot and yelling.

For a few seconds, it's just rain and ragged breathing.

Then the stranger exhales a long sigh, straightens, and pushes wet hair back from their face.

They're... cute. Very cute. Their eyes are green—actual bright green, not the dark-brown-that-looks-green-in-anime kind. The tee has some band logo warped by water, and it clings to their shoulders in a way Mio notices and then immediately scolds herself for noticing.

The stranger finally turns and sees her.

Their eyes go wide. They jerk upright fully, like someone hit a reset button.

"A—ah, sorry!" they blurt, in careful, accented Japanese. "I didn't see—uh. I mean. I didn't know someone was... here."

"It's okay," Mio says automatically.

Her voice sounds thin under the rain. She manages a polite half-smile and a small bow, which is difficult to pull off while also trying to hide behind a bus timetable.

The stranger bows back, quick and flustered. After that there's an awkward silence where they both pretend to be very interested in the street.

Mio can sense it: the moment the girl—woman? She looks around Mio's age—registers her. There's a subtle shift in air, in attention. The kind of awareness you can feel on your skin.

The stranger's gaze flicks over, then jerks away almost instantly. Mio doesn't need a mirror to know exactly what she saw. Heat rushes up Mio's neck, battling the chill. She tightens her arms around her torso and angles her tote higher.

Don't be weird, she scolds herself. It's not like she was staring. Anyone would look if someone's shirt was—

Okay, that isn't helping.

Next bus: 11 minutes.

Mio focuses on the numbers. She tries to let her mind drift somewhere else—practice, essays, anything—but awareness keeps circling back: to the cold seeping into her sleeves, to the wet cling of her shirt, to the stranger beside her radiating rain and apology.

The stranger shifts her weight, sneakers squeaking again.

"You... missed the bus too?" she asks after a moment, Japanese rough but understandable.

Mio blinks, dragged out of her loop. "What? Oh. I—I think it was late. Or I was early. Or..." She trails off, realizing none of that is a real answer. "Yes," she finishes lamely. "Probably."

Good, Mio. Nailing this.

The stranger huffs out something like a laugh. "I definitely missed it," she says, tipping her head back against the metal pillar with a soft clunk. Droplets from her hair splatter the back of her neck; she shivers. "Ran two blocks. Very dramatic. Zero points."

Mio's lips twitch. "It looked... kind of dramatic," she admits.

The stranger turns to look at her, eyes crinkling. "You saw that?"

"Hard to miss," Mio says, then realizes that might sound mean. "I mean—in a good way. Like... movie... running."

Stop talking.

Instead of being offended, the girl grins. "Movie running but with worse cardio," she says. "Good review."

The easy humor loosens something in Mio's chest. She exhales, breath puffing in the cool air.

Up close, she notices details: the faint scatter of freckles on the stranger's nose; the bracelet with maroon and black threads braided together in her left wrist; the way her lashes stick together in little dark spikes from the rain. The logo on her shirt, now that Mio squints, is for a band she doesn't recognize. English letters, some stylized cross.

The stranger glances at the digital sign, then back at Mio... then at the sign again, lingering this time. Mio knows the moment she's drawn to the clingy white fabric again because the girl's gaze yelps away like it touched a hot stove.

She swallows. Her hands tighten on her own arms.

The stranger hesitates. Then, as if making a decision, she shrugs her backpack off her shoulder and crouches to rummage through it.

Mio watches, puzzled.

There's the rustle of fabric, a muffled curse in that fast Spanish again, the squelch of a water bottle being shifted.

"Aha," the stranger says, triumphant, and pulls something out.

A hoodie.

It's folded and, miraculously, dry. Also black, with a small embroidered patch near the hem: a red heart with what might be a bass clef through it. The cotton looks thick and soft, comforting, like the plastic curry in a restaurant window that somehow always looks freshly cooked.

The stranger stands and holds it out, both hands, like an offering.

"Here," she says.

Mio blinks at it. "Ah—no, it's okay," she says, fluster spiking. "Really, I'm fine—"

"You're shivering," the girl says, gently. "And, uh." Her eyes flick down and then resolutely up again. "Your shirt. It's... um. Very Tokyo Fashion Week, but also... very cold." She winces at her own phrasing. "I mean, you look good! But also cold. I'm already..." She gestures at herself, at her absolutely drenched state. "Ocean. So. If I wear this, it'll be wet, and then it's useless. You should wear it instead."

Mio's brain tries to process all of that at once and trips on you look good.

Her face goes hot. "I—I can't take your hoodie," she protests. "You'll freeze."

The girl shakes her head. "I'm Spanish," she says, like that explains everything.

"That's... not how body temperature works," Mio says, a little helplessly, but the corners of her mouth betray her and lift.

The stranger brightens, like she's been waiting for that tiny softening. She takes a small step closer, careful, moving into Mio's space but not crowding. She lifts the hoodie again, a fraction higher.

"Please. It's okay. I have a tee, I have my foolish life choices, I'm warm inside from running like an idiot. You..." Her voice trails off. Something in her expression gentles; the joking drops away for a second. "You look really uncomfortable."

Mio's heart does something strange at that—at the way the girl says it. Not just embarrassed. Uncomfortable. Like she understands there's a difference.

The rain roars around them. Cars hiss past, their headlights carving temporary tunnels in the downpour.

Mio glances down at herself.

Blue bra, pressing visible lines under soaked white. The curve of her chest outlined darker than she likes to think about. Her arms crossed, body angled away, every muscle tensed like she's waiting for impact.

She imagines a bus pulling up and its door opening and a row of strangers' eyes sliding over her.

Her stomach twists.

Slowly, she reaches out and takes the hoodie.

"Thank you," she says, quiet.

The stranger's smile comes back, brighter than the flickering fluorescent.

The cotton is warm from wherever it's been hiding in the backpack. When Mio unfolds it, the faint smell of laundry detergent and something citrusy—shampoo?—drifts up. She hesitates only a moment before slipping her arms into the sleeves.

She tries to do it quickly, but her damp shirt makes the fabric drag. For a mortifying second she gets stuck halfway, hands in sleeves, head trapped in a tunnel of hoodie.

"I—uh," she says into the cotton. "This is—"

"Wait, here," the stranger says, and there are hands at her shoulders, barely pressing, just guiding the fabric down.

Mio freezes as the girl helps guide the hoodie over her head, tugging the hem down so it doesn't bunch awkwardly around Mio's hips. The brush of fingers over her collarbone is feather-light, impersonal, but Mio feels it like a spark.

"There," the stranger says, once Mio's head pops out and her hair is successfully yanked free. "Perfect."

The hoodie is big on her. The sleeves go past her wrists until only her fingertips show. The hem covers most of her skirt, and her own damp shirt is now just a faint chill beneath. The hood settles against the back of her neck, solid and protective.

She looks ridiculous.

She also feels... safer.

Mio tugs the collar zipper up to her throat and exhales. Her shoulders unknot a little.

"Thank you," she repeats, more sincerely. "Really. I'll... wash it and give it back."

"Okay," the stranger says immediately.

Mio blinks. "Wait. You don't even know where I live. I don't even know where you live."

The girl's grin turns lopsided, a little sheepish. "That's true, yes," she says. "Details. We solve later."

Mio huffs out a laugh. The inside of the hoodie smells, she realizes, like someone's bedroom. Not in a bad way, but lived-in. Clean fabric, a hint of coffee, the ghost of something like guitar polish. She curls her fingers into the cuffs.

"Um. I'm Akiyama Mio," she offers after a beat, because it feels rude to be bathing in a stranger's hoodie and not even know their name.

The girl straightens, eyes lighting up. She bows a little, though they're standing practically within arm's reach now. "Nayara Rivera," she says, the name tumbling out in a rhythm Mio cannot replicate. Then, seeing the tiny panic in Mio's expression, she adds quickly, "But everyone calls me Naya. Easier."

"Naya," Mio repeats, testing it in her mouth. The syllables feel warm, like something you'd shout over music. "Um. That's... foreign. Spanish, you said?"

"Guilty," Naya says, raising a hand. "Exchange student. Japanese program at uni. I swear I'm legal to give strangers hoodies."

"Is that... a law?" Mio asks, chuckling.

"It is now," Naya says solemnly. "Article one: if someone is cold and transparent, you must help."

Mio snorts, then slaps a hand over her mouth, horrified at the undignified noise. Naya's eyes gleam.

"Sorry," Naya says, softer. "I joke when I'm nervous."

"You're nervous?" Mio blurts, then wishes she could fold into the hoodie and vanish.

"Of course," Naya says, like it's obvious. She shifts her weight again, foot making another little squeak. "I ran into a bus stop like a wet chicken. There's a very pretty girl here. My Japanese is... eh." She wobbles a hand. "And I just put clothes on you. This is a very high-difficulty social situation."

Pretty.

Mio's brain short-circuits for a moment.

"I'm not—" she starts automatically, then catches herself. The hoodie is thick around her; she stares down at its zipper. "Thank you. For saying that."

"I'm a bit of a blabbermouth, as you can see." Naya scratches her cheek, now blooming pink. "Sorry if it's too much."

It should be too much. From someone she met five minutes ago, whose name she only just learned, whose hair is still dripping onto the bus stop floor. Not because she doesn't hear compliments. She does; people have always told her she's pretty. Too pretty. Beautiful. Idol-like. All those heavy, abstract things that float above her.

But Naya doesn't say it like that. She says it like an observation. Like an indisputable fact. Like: it's raining. The bus is late. You're pretty.

Mio's cheeks burn. She's grateful for the shadow of the hood.

"What do you study?" she asks, to redirect the conversation before she melts.

"Japanese. Language and culture and kanji that want me dead. And you?"

"Music education. Officially. Unofficially... also bass. And some composing. Kind of."

Naya blinks. "Bass?" she repeats. Her eyes brighten like someone just hit a switch. "You play bass too?"

Mio straightens. "Wait," she says, the word popping out. "Too?"

Naya nods. "Yeah. Bass. Four strings, low noises, no one notices you until you mess up. That bass."

Something ridiculous thrills through Mio's chest. "Electric," she says, a little too quickly. "Since high school. Band stuff. I—" Her fingers twitch against the cuff of the hoodie like they're looking for a fretboard. "I, um. Really like it."

"Same," Naya says, and there's suddenly a warm recognition. "I started in my room at fifteen. Bad acoustics. Terrible decisions. Couldn't stop."

Mio huffs out a laugh. "I started in my room, too, then a clubroom," she says. "Bad acoustics, terrible decisions, same result."

Naya smiles, and Mio mirrors. She's used to people hearing "music" and "bass" and saying, Oh, that's nice, like she told them she collects stamps.

Instead Naya lights up like someone plugged her into the socket.

"That's so cool," she says, words tumbling a bit faster now. "What kind of stuff do you play? Rock? Pop? Whatever people throw at you?"

"Um. Pop punk, mostly? Kind of? We like to play with different genres," Mio says. "And some solo stuff. I... write things. Slowly."

Naya leans in a fraction, as if they're conspiring. "Slowly is still writing. Trust me. I practice at the speed of a snail on holiday."

Mio snorts. "I thought bassists were supposed to keep good time."

"We keep time emotionally," Naya says solemnly. "On the outside we're solid. On the inside we're like, 'who am I, why is this note buzzing.'"

Mio laughs, and this time it comes out easier. "That's... not inaccurate."

For a moment the rain, the bus stop, the see-through shirt under a stranger's hoodie—all blur at the edges. There's just this bright, giddy thought in her chest: she gets it. The jokes, the invisible glue of the band, the way your whole body learns a song by vibration.

Two bassists, under one leaking roof.

The rain keeps pounding around them, but inside the little bus stop it feels warmer now, less like a gray waiting room and more like a bubble they're both holding up.

"So you were running from... class?" Mio asks.

Naya shakes her head. "From the studio we rent. I lost track of time, like an idiot. I was trying out a new pedal and then suddenly..." She mimes looking at a clock and panicking. "I thought I could catch the bus if I ran. The bus disagreed."

Mio pictures her, hunched over some amp in a practice room, twisting knobs, completely absorbed until the world reasserted itself whoops too late. Something about the image makes her chest ache with a weird, familiar fondness.

"I know that feeling," she says.

"You also miss buses because of pedals?" Naya asks.

"Because of practice," Mio says. "Or writing. Or my own brain."

"Ah," Naya says. "The third instrument: brain, untuned."

Mio lets out another short laugh. "You're very poetic for someone who just called herself a wet chicken."

"I contain multitudes," Naya says gravely. "Also, I'm definitely still a chicken. My shoes are making soup. Caldo. Cocido."

As if on cue, she lifts one foot. Water squelches audibly inside her sneaker. Mio winces in sympathy. "Your socks must be freezing."

"It's okay. I'll go to my dorm, cry, change, write a song about this." She gestures vaguely. "Very dramatic rain chord progression. G minor. Thunder on the two."

"That's oddly specific," Mio says.

"I'm a professional. Almost. Maybe. In my dreams."

The digital sign above them ticks down.

Next bus: 4 minutes.

Time is suddenly moving again. Mio feels a little disoriented. It's strange; when she was alone, thirteen minutes had felt like a sentence. Now four minutes feels... short.

She wants more.

She glances sideways at Naya, who is watching the rain with an expression that is part annoyance, part fascination, and part child at a zoo exhibit. Droplets bead on her bangs; one slides down the curve of her jaw. She's still shivering, just a little.

"You really don't want the hoodie back?" Mio asks, guilt pricking at her. "Your shirt is... um."

Naya looks down at herself. Her tee is stuck to her skin, outlining her shape in a way that, technically, is exactly as revealing as Mio's shirt had been. Somehow it feels different, maybe because Naya is clearly past the point of caring.

"I promise I'm okay," Naya says. "It's not... the same. For me. People see me and think, 'ah, funny foreigner, wet, stupid, okay.' People see you and..."

She trails off. Mio knows how to finish that sentence. People see you and decide things. Project things.

"Thank you," she says again, quieter.

Naya nods, as if that's settled.

A beat of silence passes, comfortable now, filled with the white noise of weather and the low hum of the city around them.

"So," Naya says, after a moment. "If you'll wash my hoodie and return it, we must solve the earlier problem of not knowing where each other live."

Mio's mouth quirks. "You could just be trusting a stranger with your clothes forever."

"Fair," Naya says. "But no. I like this hoodie. My friend customized the patch. If I lose it, she'll kill me. So." She digs into her backpack again, emerges with a crumpled convenience store receipt and a pen that has seen better days. She scribbles something on the back—numbers, letters—and holds it out. "My LINE," she says. "And my name, but easier version. You can send me a message when the hoodie is clean, and we can, uh." She gestures. "Arrange hostage exchange."

Mio hesitates, then takes the paper. The writing is loopy and a little chaotic, but readable: Naya, and a string of digits, and a tiny doodle of what looks suspiciously like a bass guitar in the corner.

She pulls her phone out, thumbs cold, and taps Naya's number into the "add friend" screen without hitting send. Her reflection ghosts over the glass: rain-soaked bassist in a borrowed hoodie.

"What if I just steal it?" she teases.

Naya blinks. Then laughs, delighted. "Then I'll have to stalk all the bus stops in Tokyo until I find you," she says. "Very romantic drama. Low budget."

"You'd get very wet," Mio points out.

"I get very wet anyway," Naya says, gesturing to herself.

The sentence hangs there for a second.

Mio's brain helpfully underlines 'wet' in neon. Heat flickers up her neck.

Naya seems to realize at the same time. "I mean—weather-wet," she blurts. "Rain-wet. Meteorological. Like—I think—I think the rain gods already have me on a subscription plan." Naya grimaces. "Wow, great save, Nayara."

Mio lets out a startled laugh. "I knew what you meant," she says, though her cheeks are warm.

"Okay," Naya mutters. "Because my mouth is working without consulting the rest of me."

A bus appears in the distance, headlights cutting bright through the gray. It grows quickly, rumbling closer, wipers flailing. Mio's stomach does that little anxious flip it always does when something that leads to elsewhere arrives.

Naya steps forward a bit, checking the number. "This is yours?" she asks.

Mio nods. "Yeah."

"Mine too," Naya says. "At least until the station. After that I change."

They line up automatically, the way city training has taught them: small, neat queue, even though there are only two of them and an elderly woman who's just hurried over with a plastic raincoat, eyeing the sky like it personally offended her.

When the bus doors hiss open, warm air and the faint smell of artificial pine and people wash over them.

Mio taps her card, steps up, and gravitates to a pair of empty seats halfway down. She hesitates, half-turning, and sees Naya behind her, dripping onto the rubber floor.

She could sit by herself. They're strangers. They have each other's LINE now; that's more than she had fifteen minutes ago. The hoodie alone is already off-script for her.

Still.

She shifts into the window seat, leaving the aisle open. Looks up.

Naya's eyes flick from the empty seat to Mio's face. For a moment, something like relief, or maybe hope, crosses her expression.

"Can I?" she asks.

Mio nods. "Please."

Naya flops into the seat with a soft squelch. Her backpack ends up between her knees, shoes resting on the metal bar. She takes a breath, the first deep one since they got on, and then laughs quietly.

"What?" Mio asks, unable not to smile.

"This is very weird," Naya says. "In a good way. I don't usually... talk. To people. At bus stops. In the rain. Then give them clothes. Then sit next to them."

"Me neither. I mean. I talk even less."

"That's impressive. Because you've said many things."

Mio thinks back on her own words, horrified. "I've probably said too many things."

"No," Naya says immediately, and there's that seriousness again under the teasing. "I like hearing you talk."

The bus pulls away from the curb. The rain streaks sideways across the windows now, smeared into long glistening lines. City lights blur into watercolor.

Mio turns her head, watching their reflections overlay the outside world. Her own face is partly hidden by the hood, eyes darker in the glass. Naya's reflected profile beside her looks softer than reality, edges washed out by motion.

"You, uh, don't have to add me," Naya says suddenly, fingers worrying at the strap of her backpack. "On LINE, I mean. If you're just being polite. You can throw away the paper. The hoodie can live a new life with you. I'll only mourn a little."

"I'll add you," Mio says, before she can overthink it.

Naya blinks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Mio's pulse is loud in her ears, louder than the engine. She fumbles her phone out again, thumbs shaking slightly for a different reason now, and opens the app. "You can't exactly put clothes on someone and run away forever. That sounds like a crime."

"Ah, true," Naya says solemnly. "Article two. No drive-by clothing."

Mio finds the half-filled "add friend" screen from earlier and just has to tap confirm. "Is your icon... a cat with a bass?" she asks.

"That's my son," Naya says. "He's called El Gato del Groove. Groovecito for friends."

Mio snorts again—God, when did she become someone who snorts?—and taps to send.

Naya's phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out, shielding it from dripping sleeves. Her lock screen is, Mio notices, a picture of a band onstage in some small live house, three silhouettes and lights like falling stars.

A second later, Mio's phone vibrates back.

The little wink makes something unfurl in Mio's chest.

She replies before she can talk herself out of it.

Naya glances at her screen, then at Mio, astonished laughter bubbling up.

"You're funny," she says.

"No, I just..." Mio trails off. She doesn't know how to explain that she hasn't texted someone new like this in ages. That most of her life happens between practice rooms and lecture halls and the predictable routes between them, and chance encounters at bus stops belong to a different genre entirely. She settles for: "You make it easy."

Naya's cheeks pink a little, whether from residual cold or something else. "I'm not built for this much cute in one day."

Mio tugs the hoodie sleeves over her hands to hide how flustered she is. Outside, neon signs slide by, reflecting streaks of color across Naya's wet hair. Inside the bus, it's warm and dim; the murmur of other passengers is a low, safe hum.

She looks at Naya again.

At the way droplets still cling to the curve of her ear. At the faint smile playing at the corner of her mouth as she looks back down at her phone, thumb hovering like she's composing another message. At the hoodie's patch, now resting over Mio's own chest like a borrowed crest.

A ridiculous thought passes through Mio's mind.

If this were a song, this would be the intro. Rain, a held-out chord, the low thump of engines like a kick drum in the distance. Two lines of melody that don't know yet that they're about to braid.

She hugs the hoodie a little closer.

Maybe, she thinks, rain isn't only romantic when you're watching it from inside.

Maybe, sometimes, it's romantic when a stranger runs into it, slips under your bus stop, laughs with you about being a wet chicken, and hands you something warm.

Maybe sometimes, in a city of millions, the storm pushes exactly the right person to share the same small, imperfect roof with.

"You good?" Naya asks suddenly, curious, tilting her head.

Mio startles, then nods. "Yeah. Just thinking."

"About?"

Mio looks out at the rain-streaked world, then back at Naya. She smiles, small and secret. "I'm glad I missed the bus."

Naya's answering grin is so bright it could be its own weather.

Chapter Text

Mio has washed the hoodie three times.

Once with her regular laundry, in perfectly normal detergent.

Once again, because she was sure it still smelled a bit like someone else's room and she panicked.

And a third time because by that point it felt weirdly ritualistic, like maybe every rinse was polishing the courage she didn't have.

Now it waits on her desk, dry and folded, the little heart-and-bass-clef patch peeking up at her like it knows something.

Her phone is facedown on her desk. This is not helping because she can still feel it there, like a rectangular ghost radiating notification energy.

She flips it over anyway.

The LINE chat is still open on the last message.

Mio stares at the screen and tells herself, again, that this is not a date.

Objectively, it is a hoodie exchange. A hostage negotiation with coffee. Two (2) people who met in the rain at one (1) bus stop, meeting at a café equidistant between three (3) stations for the purpose of fabric transfer.

It is absolutely not a date.

Her stomach, which has been practicing gymnastics since morning, disagrees.

She taps her reply from earlier, reading it for the hundredth time.

Naya had replied instantly.

Mio had stared at that for a long ten seconds before daring to answer.

That had been yesterday. There have been no messages since. Which is fine. It would be weird if there were more. They barely know each other.

And you washed her hoodie three times.

Mio groans and flops back on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her room is quiet, faint neighborhood noise seeping through the walls. Her bass, Elizabass, the same one she'd had since high school, when a tea-time band accidentally turned into a real thing, leans against its stand in the corner like a judgmental roommate.

"Don't look at me like that," she mutters.

The bass, unhelpfully, continues to exist.

Great. Now she's the kind of person who talks to her instrument, like Yui does with Giitah. Apparently it's contagious.

She rolls onto her side to check the time.

3:02 p.m.

Okay. That's fine. The café is three stops away. Fifteen minutes, plus walking. If she leaves at 3:20, she'll be on time. If she leaves earlier, she'll be embarrassingly early, which feels somehow worse.

Her brain helpfully pulls up a highlight reel of Naya at the bus stop: stumbling in like a drenched cat, laughing at herself, hair plastered to her forehead. The way her fingers brushed Mio's shoulders, gentle, when she helped pull the hoodie over her head. The look on her face when she said you look really uncomfortable like it mattered to her.

Mio glances at the hoodie again.

She should put it in a tote bag. Or a paper bag. Something neutral. If she wears it, that feels like an escalation. If she doesn't wear it, she might be cold. The forecast said "chance of showers," which in Tokyo means anything from "light mist" to "biblical punishment."

Her closet door is halfway open, revealing the white shirt from last time hanging there, washed and ironed and absolutely banned forever.

She chooses a black turtleneck. It's safe. Non-transparent. Entirely incapable of accidental bra display.

Jeans, not a skirt. Boots, because if it rains again—and with Naya involved, the probability seems high—she'd rather not wade through puddles in ballet flats.

She pulls the turtleneck over her head, checks herself in the mirror, then immediately overthinks her own reflection. Turtleneck feels date-ish. But it's also warm. But it also makes her look like she's trying. But also maybe that's okay?

Her phone buzzes. Her heart ricochets off her ribs.

She adds, after a moment of wild bravery:

The three dots appear, then vanish, then appear again like Naya's thinking too hard about something as stupid as this.

Mio smiles at her screen. The knot in her chest untangles a little.

She folds the hoodie carefully, slides it into her tote, and heads out.

The café is the kind of place that is trying very hard to look like it is not trying very hard.

Concrete walls, small wooden tables squeezed a little too close together, potted plants that may or may not be real. A chalkboard menu with neat handwriting lists single-origin drip and seasonal parfaits at prices that make Mio's student soul wince just a little. Soft J-indie drifts from the speakers—the kind of acoustic guitar songs you only ever hear as café BGM. It's the kind of playlist that would make Ritsu groan and demand double kick: "Where's the drama, Mio?"

Mio gets there at 3:43 because of course she left at 3:15 despite all her planning.

She chooses a two-seater table near the window, not too close to the door in case someone she knows walks in and decides to interpret this as something it is absolutely not, and places the tote with the hoodie on the chair opposite like a placeholder guest. She doesn't open her notebook and start writing, because that would be fake. She does, however, pull her phone out and pretend to scroll while actually watching the door with what she hopes is a casual amount of desperation.

People come and go. A man in a suit, a woman with a stroller, a trio of students with laptops and the air of people writing group reports two hours before the deadline.

Every time the door opens, Mio's heart jumps, then settles.

At exactly 3:59, the bell jingles again, and this time—

Naya bursts in on a gust of half-rain, half-cold air, shaking droplets from her hair like an actual wet dog. She's layered a washed-out denim jacket over a band tee this time, hood of a black sweatshirt bunched at the collar, ripped jeans still freckled with raindrops.

Her green eyes scan the room, over the counter, past the group with laptops, and land on Mio.

They light up.

Mio's stomach does something extremely unhelpful and fluttery.

Naya raises a hand in a little wave, then nearly runs into a waiter carrying a tray. There's a muttered apology, a small bow, and a beat where she stands very still to recalibrate, like a videogame character recovering from clipping into a wall. Then she approaches the table.

"Hey," she says, a bit breathless, cheeks flushed from the cold.

"Hi," Mio replies, glad she's sitting so Naya can't see her knees wobble. "You... made it without fighting any buses."

"It was close." Naya drops into the opposite chair. "One looked at me with bad vibes, but I resisted."

Up close, her hair is flattened from the damp, but less chaotic than last time. She runs a hand through it, and it springs back up in a tousled mess.

Mio's fingers tighten around her phone.

"Did you get caught in the rain?" Mio asks, glancing toward the window. The sky is cloudy but, for now, dry. Kinda.

"A little spit from the heavens," Naya says, rolling her eyes upward. "I think the rain gods are just warming up." She nods toward the tote bag. "Is that my child?"

"Oh. Yes." Mio pushes the tote toward her, suddenly weirdly reluctant. "It's clean. I washed it."

"Once?"

Mio hesitates half a second too long.

Naya's eyes widen, then crinkle. "Twice?"

"... Three times," Mio mutters.

Naya's laughter bursts out bright and delighted, making the couple at the next table glance over. "You washed my hoodie three times?" she says. "Wow. He's a lucky boy."

Mio risks a teasing look. "You gender your clothes?"

"They have personalities. This one is called Paco. He's dramatic, but soft."

"Paco," Mio repeats, amused. "That sounds like a telenovela character."

"Exactly. He always comes back from the dead in the rain."

Mio bites back another laugh, feeling the tightness in her chest dissolving by degrees. How does she do that? Just appear, say five stupid things, and suddenly Mio's brain is three octaves lighter.

"Um. Do you want to order something?" Mio asks, nodding toward the counter. "We don't have to—I mean, we can just—but we're here, so..."

"I want coffee and something that lies to me about how healthy it is," Naya says. "Like a carrot cake. It has carrot, so it's salad."

"I think that's not how that works."

"It is exactly how that works," Naya insists. "Come, help me judge the pastries."

They order together: a latte and a slice of carrot cake for Naya, tea and a small strawberry cake for Mio. There's a brief interlude when Naya tries to pay for everything, Mio refuses, and they end up doing a weird dance with their wallets until the barista suggests they split the bill.

"Sorry," Naya mutters as they return to their table with the little wooden number stand. "I didn't mean to—I just—in Spain we... I don't know, I panic."

"It's okay," Mio says, hugging her warm mug. "I panic too. All the time. Sometimes I panic about... air."

"Oh, same," Naya says solemnly, blowing on her latte. "Air is very suspicious. Always there. Never paying rent."

They fall into conversation like they've accidentally skipped the awkward first-few-times stage.

Mio learns that Naya's dorm room is a chaos of cables, sheet music, and mugs with varying levels of dried coffee in them; that she has a part-time job at a small record store and plays bass in a loud little rock band called Ruby Riot, whose setlists are taped crookedly to her wall; that she Skypes her younger brother back home every Sunday and plays him stupid riffs he pretends not to like.

Naya learns that Mio has been playing bass since high school, in a tea-time band called Ho-Kago Tea Time that accidentally got more serious than any of them planned; that she almost ended up majoring in literature instead; and that she still sometimes feels like she's accidentally trespassing in the "real musician" zone.

"Real musicians are just... people who didn't stop," Naya says, licking frosting off her fork. "You didn't stop. So. Ta-da."

"You make it sound simple."

"It is simple. Not easy. Big difference."

Mio turns that over in her head.

She watches the way Naya talks with her hands, how the green of her eyes goes sharp when she's passionate—about weird chords, about how nothing in Tokyo can beat proper Spanish tortilla, about the way rain sounds different in different cities.

She watches the way Naya looks at her when Mio says something honest, like she's being handed a rare, fragile object and she wants to hold it correctly.

The conversation loops and meanders, but it never drops. When it threatens to get too heavy, Naya punctures it with a joke; when it skims too shallow, something quiet slips in beneath.

At one point, Mio adjusts the cuffs of her turtleneck and Naya's gaze flicks to the spot where, last time, a transparent shirt had betrayed her.

"Is the hoodie the right size?" Naya asks.

Mio blinks. "Huh?"

"For you," Naya clarifies. "If you, uh. Want to still wear it sometimes. When you are not returning it to its idiot owner."

Mio's hand unconsciously closes over the tote's handle. "It's... comfortable," she admits. "And warm."

"And good for modesty against evil rain," Naya says. Her expression softens. "I'm glad. You looked... more like yourself when you put it on."

Mio thinks of that moment at the bus stop, the way her body had unclenched by degrees under the hoodie's weight. How she'd felt less like scenery and more like a person again. "Thank you," she says quietly. "For seeing that."

Naya shrugs one shoulder, a little embarrassed. "I know how it feels," she says. "Different reasons, maybe. But—" She gestures vaguely at herself. "People see what they want. Clothes can be like... volume knobs."

Mio stares at her for a beat, surprised by the metaphor. Then she smiles. "Exactly."

They sit with that for a moment, their mugs steaming between them, the café's murmur wrapping around their little table.

It's only when the music overhead slows and the light outside the window fades to a deeper gray that Mio realizes how much time has passed.

She checks her phone. 5:26 p.m.

"Oh," she says. "I didn't realize—"

"Time is fake," Naya says. "Also, we're in a café. It's like an airport, but with less crying children and more latte art. You live here now."

"I can't. They'd make me pay rent in strawberry cake."

"Worse things have happened."

The bell over the door jingles. Someone enters with an umbrella, shaking raindrops off in the entryway.

Mio glances out.

The street is wet again. Raindrops tap-tap against the glass, at first delicate, then heavier. The sky has decided on "full melancholy."

"Ah," Naya says, following her gaze. "They woke up."

Mio snorts. "Rain gods?"

"Yes," Naya sighs. "They looked at the schedule and said, 'ah, those two together again. Turn up the rain.'"

Mio's heart stutters a little at those two together, even if it's wrapped in a joke.

"I should probably go soon," she says reluctantly. "I have some reading to do for class tomorrow."

"And I promised my brother I'd call. But... maybe we can walk to the station together? Before we're fully drowned."

Mio looks at the rain. It's steady now, but not yet violent. She pictures them sharing the sidewalk, shoulders nearly brushing, umbrellas colliding.

"Yes," she says, before she can overthink it. "I'd like that."

They gather their things. Naya carefully, almost ceremoniously, takes the hoodie out of the tote and folds it into her backpack.

"He's seen things," she says gravely. "He's a man now."

Mio raises an eyebrow. "You're very weird."

"Thank you," Naya says, as if she's been complimented. "Let's go before the third act starts."

By the time they step outside, the rain has taken itself very seriously.

It's not the cinematic drizzle of Mio's fantasies. It's the practical, efficient kind that soaks every exposed surface in thirty seconds or less.

They stand just under the café awning for a moment, adjusting to the new soundscape: the heavy hiss, the occasional car whoosh, the rhythmic clatter of someone running with an umbrella.

"You brought one, right?" Mio asks, already suspecting the answer.

Naya pats her denim jacket pockets.

Then her jeans.

Then her backpack.

Then looks up at Mio with the expression of a small child caught stealing cookies.

"In my defense," she says, "I thought if I didn't bring it, it wouldn't rain."

"That's... not how anything works," Mio says, incredulous.

"It worked for, like, an hour. Which is practically science."

Mio sighs. "I have one," she says, holding up the navy collapsible peeking out of her tote's inner pocket. "But it's... small."

"We're also small. We can be small together."

Mio's brain does something ill-advised with that sentence.

She pops the umbrella open. It's one of those compact ones that claims to be for two people but really only protects the concept of togetherness and your upper shoulders.

They step out from under the awning. Naya immediately moves closer, ducking under the fabric. Their arms bump. Their hands almost brush.

"This is cozy," Naya says lightly, though Mio can hear the slight hitch in her voice.

Rain drums on the umbrella above them, a satisfying little drum solo.

They walk in sync at first, then fall out of step, then re-synchronize without talking about it. Pedestrians stream past, some with plastic raincoats, some with bath-towel-sized umbrellas, some resignedly umbrella-less and wet.

When a quickly passing businessman's umbrella edge nearly decapitates them, Naya instinctively puts a hand on Mio's back, steering her gently closer to herself and away from the edge of the sidewalk.

Mio feels the warmth of that touch through the layers, a focused little sun.

"Thanks," she says, startled.

"Umbrella fighting is a dangerous art. You must have a bodyguard."

"Are you volunteering?"

"Sí. My rates are one coffee per week."

"That's very affordable."

Naya glances down at her, eyes amused. "I give student discounts."

They're both quiet for a moment after that, not quite looking at each other.

A car goes by, hitting a puddle just wrong. A wave of water leaps up, aiming squarely for the sidewalk. Mio squeaks and instinctively steps back.

Naya doesn't step away fast enough.

Cold water splashes her jeans from the knee down. She yelps, hopping once on one foot.

"¡Será gilipollas!" she curses, Spanish snapping sharp in the air.

Mio clamps a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. "Are you okay?"

"I've known less tragic things," Naya says, staring mournfully at her soaked pant leg. "But it's okay. I'll survive. I'm used to being personally attacked by liquid."

Mio's laugh escapes despite her best efforts. It ripples out of her, mixing with the rain.

Naya looks up at the sound, and for a moment, her expression shifts: something soft and fascinated passing through it.

"What?" Mio asks, self-conscious, checking if she has cake on her face.

"Nothing," Naya says quickly, then, more honestly, "I just... really like your laugh."

Mio ducks her head. The umbrella tilts; a fat raindrop smacks Naya's hair.

"Ah!" Naya says, squinting up at the sky. "Okay, who did we offend?"

"Sorry," Mio winces. "Collateral damage."

"I see. Betrayed by my own umbrella partner. I'm being bullied from above and within."

Mio chuckles, and they keep going. The station is still a few blocks away. The rain thickens, sheets of it making the world beyond the umbrella look watercolor-blurred.

They pass a convenience store with a small overhang. Naya nods toward it.

"Hideout?" she suggests.

Mio considers the distance to the station, the growing wetness on her jeans, the way the wind is starting to angle the rain right under the umbrella no matter how they tilt it.

"Hideout," she agrees.

They duck under the overhang. It's narrower than the café awning, forcing them closer. Mio collapses the umbrella, shaking it once and sending a spray of droplets onto the already-damp pavement. The world beyond their little rectangle of dryness is white noise and movement. Cars move like shadow puppets behind a curtain of water.

They stand side by side, shoulders almost touching, both breathing harder than the short walk really warrants.

Mio can feel the beat of her own pulse in her throat.

She should say something. Anything. About class, about bass strings, about meteorology. Instead, her brain has chosen to play a montage of every almost moment in her life and set it to the soundtrack of heavy rain.

Naya tucks her hands into her jacket pockets, rocking on her heels.

"So," she says, voice a little lower against the muffled world. "This was nice."

"Yes," Mio says, perhaps too quickly. "It was. I—I had a good time."

Naya's mouth curves. "Even when I stepped in a puddle and almost died?"

"Especially then. It was... refreshing. Mostly for you."

Naya laughs under her breath.

Another car passes. The spray splashes out, but this time doesn't reach them. They're just far enough back.

"This feels like a movie," Naya says after a moment. "You know? Rain, café, almost getting murdered by a taxi puddle..."

"Hoodie returning," Mio adds. "You forgot the crucial plot point."

"True. Our hero Paco, finally reunited with his idiot owner."

"And his temporary... borrower."

Naya's gaze softens. "Yeah."

Silence again.

Mio can hear the beating of the rain, the distant announcement of a train from somewhere above them, the hum of refrigerators inside the convenience store behind them.

Her fingers fiddle with the folded umbrella handle. Her mind is a tangle.

She wants—

She doesn't have a neat word for it. She wants more of this. More Naya talking too fast about chords. More laughter that sneaks up on her. More of the way their steps had fallen into sync under the too-small umbrella.

She imagines saying, So, do you maybe want to do this again sometime? and immediately dies of embarrassment in five languages.

Naya shifts beside her.

"Can I ask you something?" she says.

Mio's heart yo-yos. "Sure."

"Is this—" Naya gestures vaguely between them, then toward the rain, then back. "We called it hoodie exchange. Not a date. But... did it feel a little like one to you?"

Mio's brain blue-screens.

Her first instinct is to deny, to backpedal, to laugh it off. That's the safe script: Oh, no, of course not, ha ha, we just met, we just talk on LINE, we're maybe friends, it's not like that.

But the word 'friend' feels too big and too small, and not at all honest.

She forces her gaze away from the rain and toward Naya.

Naya is watching her with wary hope, like someone who has opened a door a crack and is terrified of it being slammed in her face.

"It... kind of did," Mio says, voice barely above the rain.

Naya's shoulders relax, just a fraction. The exhale she lets out is audible even over the storm. "Okay," she says, a small, helpless smile breaking out. "Good. I thought so. But my brain was like, 'no, you're crazy, stop projecting, it's the serotonin from the cake.'"

Mio laughs, startled and relieved and terrified all at once. "Your brain talks a lot," she says.

"So does yours. I can hear it from here."

Mio looks away again, cheeks burning. "That obvious, huh."

"Only to someone whose own brain is screaming the same things."

They stand like that for another beat, both looking outward, bodies angled inward.

"Can I ask you something too?" Mio says.

"Of course."

"Do you..." She fumbles, tries again. "Are you—do you usually—"

She gestures vaguely, which is not helpful.

Luckily, Naya seems to understand anyway. Her gaze turns a little serious, a little shy. "If you mean do I usually like girls," she says softly, "yes."

"Oh." Mio's breath catches. "Okay."

She knew, probably. Somewhere between the wet-chicken joke and the pretty girl bus stop comment. But hearing it stated plainly makes something unclench inside her.

"And you?" Naya asks, just as softly. "You don't have to answer if you don't want. Or you can answer in hieroglyphics."

Mio watches the rain for a moment, then sighs. "I... think so," she says. "I mean. I know I like... at least one girl."

"Ah," Naya says, and there's a tremor of humor in it. "Very specific case study."

Mio's lips curve. "The sample size is small," she says. "But the evidence is strong."

Naya's hand flexes in her pocket. "Can I ask one more thing then?"

"You're very inquisitive."

"I'm a researcher of feelings. And bass tones."

Mio huffs a small laugh. "Go ahead."

Naya turns to face her fully now, one shoulder leaning against the convenience store wall.

"Do you want... more dates?" she asks. "With me. Because for me, this was definitely one. And the bus stop was like... prequel date." 

Mio blinks at her.

Naya swallows. Her usual stream of jokes has slowed to a nervous trickle. "If you don't," she adds quickly, "that's okay. We can pretend this is all just weather by coincidence. We can talk about bass and rain metaphors and you never have to worry about creepy hoodie obligations. We can be just... friends, if you want. I just—I think I might maybe like you more than just bus-stop friend. And I don't want to keep acting like this is just... random."

Mio's heart is pounding so hard she's half-convinced the raindrops are bouncing off it.

She thinks of the bus stop, of the way the hoodie felt safe and heavy on her shoulders. Of laughing in the café until her stomach hurt. Of Naya's careful questions, like she wanted to understand the shape of Mio's discomfort and not poke it.

She thinks of all the times in her life she's swallowed words because it was easier. Because saying them out loud made them real and messy and vulnerable.

The rain is a curtain around them, a sound wall that makes the world smaller, closer. The neon from a nearby sign paints faint color onto Naya's cheekbones.

"Yes," Mio hears herself say. "I... want more. Dates. With you."

Naya stares at her, as if she didn't quite expect to get this far in her own question tree.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Mio repeats, terrified and exhilarated.

Naya's smile is slow and bright and a little stunned. "Okay. Cool. Great. Wonderful. Fantastic. I am very normal about this."

"You're shaking," Mio points out.

"It's the rain," Naya lies.

It might be. It might not.

Another car passes. Another wave of water slaps the curb.

The convenience store's sliding door hisses open behind them; a man steps out, glances at them, then hurries off into the downpour with his umbrella.

The door shuts again. They're alone under the overhang.

Mio's hand tightens on the umbrella handle, knuckles pale.

There is a question sitting heavy on her tongue.

If this were a movie, this is where someone would kiss someone. The rain, the confession, the ridiculous almost-privacy of a convenience store roof—it's embarrassing how textbook it is.

Real life is not a movie.

Except sometimes it really does feel like the universe is storyboarding you without permission, handing you a script and asking: do you want to improvise on this?

And if she doesn't ask now, she knows she will replay this moment forever, in the worst possible way.

"One last question," Mio says, finally.

Naya looks at her like she's the only thing in focus. "Hit me."

"Can I..." Mio's throat is dry despite the humidity. "Can I kiss you?"

Naya's breath catches so sharply it's almost audible.

Her eyes go wide, then soft, then bright. For a second she just stands there, like someone's pressed pause on her.

Then she nods. Once. Twice. A small, reverent motion.

"Sí—yes," she says. The word is a little shaky. "You can. Please."

Mio's body is a careful, trembling thing as she turns to face her fully. The umbrella is closed and useless in her hand now; she set it down at some point without realizing.

They're close enough that Mio can see individual raindrops catching in Naya's hairline, the slight chapped dryness of her lower lip, the green ring around her pupils like diluted paint.

She reaches up, tentative, and rests her fingers against Naya's jaw. Naya leans into the touch so delicately it breaks something open in Mio's chest.

"Is this okay?" Mio whispers.

"Perfect," Naya whispers back.

The first touch of their mouths is almost nothing. A brush, an exhale, a question mark—warmth skating over warmth before either of them really commits.

Naya's hand comes up, hovering for a second like she's afraid of overstepping, then settles feather-light on Mio's waist. Mio breathes in, tastes coffee and rain and something warm and unfamiliar that immediately feels like home. The next press of their lips lingers a fraction longer, a shy bit of pressure, the faint drag of lower lip against lower lip as they both try to follow the other's lead.

Mio tilts her head a little. Their noses bump. They both make small startled sounds and pull back half a centimeter, then laugh, breathless and shy. Mio's lips are tingling; part of her wants to catalog every detail, the rest just wants more.

"First time jitters," Naya murmurs, eyes crinkling. "We'll tell the grandkids we were very smooth."

"You're getting ahead of yourself," Mio manages.

"It's how I cope."

Mio smiles. Then, before the courage can evaporate, she leans in again.

This time, it lands more solidly. Naya meets her halfway, lips soft, yielding. There is still uncertainty there—Mio isn't experienced, Naya has admitted she isn't either—but there is also a kind of quiet eagerness that wraps around the nervousness and makes it gentle.

The rain is louder suddenly, or maybe Mio just notices it more. It roars in her ears, mixing with the thrum of her pulse.

She shifts her hand from Naya's jaw to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in damp hair. Naya makes a tiny noise, a pleased hum that sends a warm zing down Mio's spine.

It doesn't last forever. Their lungs are still mortal. They break apart slowly, with a few soft, awkward little almost-kisses along the way.

When they finally stop, they're both breathing harder than the effort really warrants.

"Wow," Naya says, voice hoarse-soft. "Ten out of ten."

Mio lets out a shaky laugh that dissolves into something almost like a sob, though there's nothing sad in it. Just too much. "Yeah," she says, helplessly. "I... liked that."

"Me too," Naya murmurs. She pulls back just enough to see Mio's face, searching it. Whatever she finds there makes her smile curve even softer. She taps her own chest with two fingers. "I was going to explode if you hadn't said something. So thank you for saving my life."

Mio snorts, still a little dazed. "That's a lot of responsibility."

"You can handle it. You play bass. You hold the whole band together."

Mio's heart gives another stupid little lurch at that.

They stand there for a moment longer, letting the reality settle around them like the rain misting around the edges of their little shelter.

Eventually, practicality taps Mio on the shoulder.

"We're going to miss the next train," she says reluctantly.

"We can miss one," Naya says. Then, seeing the conflict on Mio's face, adds, "Or we can throw ourselves into the wet world and be productive citizens. Your call."

Mio glances out at the waterfall-street, then back at Naya's open expression.

"We'll be late if we wait for it to stop," she says. "And I have homework. And you have a brother call."

"True," Naya sighs. "Fine. We'll be responsible. But." She points a mock-stern finger. "I'm walking you all the way to your station entrance. And then I'll dramatically watch you go down the stairs like in a sad music video."

"Please don't," Mio says, laughing.

"I make no promises," Naya says, but her eyes are bright.

They open the umbrella again, crowding under it. This time, when their arms brush, they lean in a little.

The rain doesn't magically let up because they kissed. The world doesn't shift key. The same cars drive by, the same neon signs hum to life in the damp evening.

But something in Mio is different.

She is still herself. Still anxious, still overthinking, still someone who washed a hoodie three times because she didn't know what to do with her hands.

She is also, apparently, someone who can ask for what she wants. At a bus stop. Under a convenience store awning. With rain drumming applause over her head.

They reach the station entrance too fast.

They stop at the top of the stairs, half under the umbrella, half under the station's concrete lip.

"So," Naya says. "Thank you for today. And for not stealing Paco permanently."

"I'll borrow him again someday."

"I hope so." Naya hesitates, then holds out her hand, palm up, like an invitation.

Mio slides her fingers into hers. Naya's grip is gentle but steady, thumb brushing once over Mio's knuckles. Something stupidly sweet swells in Mio's chest.

"And I'll... text you?" she says. "About... another... hoodie exchange. I mean. Date."

Naya's grin could power the whole station. "Please do. My schedule is very much free for being rained on with you."

"I'll bring an umbrella."

Naya gasps. "Traitor," she whispers, scandalized.

They both laugh. It feels ridiculous and perfect.

Mio takes a small step down the stairs, still facing Naya.

"See you," she says.

"Hasta luego," Naya replies, the Spanish wrapping around the syllables like a promise. "See you."

Mio turns, heart light and heavy all at once, and descends into the warm, fluorescent-bright underworld of the station.

Behind her, she can feel Naya's gaze like a gentle hand on her back, steady and present.

The next time it rains, Mio suspects, she won't groan at the forecast. She'll check her phone, thumbs hovering over Naya's name, cheeks aching from smiling too hard.

Maybe the rain gods know what they're doing.