The Humanities building exhales students in staggered waves. Those with umbrellas hurry past those without, a familiar choreography of reluctance and resignation. The air smells of wet earth, damp concrete, and the faintly sweet scent of dying leaves.

You watch Gojo lower his sunglasses just enough to peer at you over the rim. Rain catches on his white lashes.

He smells like rain and parchment and the particular, faintly floral soap he uses.

Now it is just you and Nanami. The rain fills the space between you, a constant white noise. Students rush past, a blur of soaked backpacks and hunched shoulders, but you both stand still in the pocket of silence under his umbrella.