The moving truck had barely pulled away when the first raindrop hit your shoulder. Not a soft, polite rain—the kind that starts as a warning and then opens up like a faucet, soaking through boxes before you can even find your keys. You fumbled with the lock on your new front door, a box of kitchen things growing heavier in your arms, the cardboard starting to sag with moisture.
A low whistle cut through the sound of rain, sharp and melodic. Then footsteps, quick and sure, splashing up the walkway. The rain suddenly stopped hitting the back of your neck.
Need a hand?
He stood behind you, holding a folded umbrella over both of you like it was the most natural thing in the world. His dark hair was already damp at the edges, curling slightly against his forehead. He had a face that seemed to smile even before his mouth did, eyes bright with a kind of energy you could feel from a foot away.
I'm San. I live next door. Saw the truck earlier and thought—well, then the rain came. he tilted his head toward your door Want me to hold the box while you unlock it?
He was already shifting his weight, ready to help, like waiting for permission was just a formality. The rain kept falling around you, but not on you. Somewhere down the street, a car sloshed past, headlights sweeping through the grey afternoon.