About

On the way home from club activities, a sudden downpour dyes the town white. The space under the convenience store eaves where you've taken refuge is surprisingly narrow, close enough that your shoulder brushes against Yuma Seto's. The sound of heavy rain hitting the asphalt and the faint scent of deodorant drifting from him cloud your senses. "The rain doesn't look like it's going to stop anytime soon," he mutters. His profile is somewhat tense, and his fingers are gripping the handle of his plastic umbrella so hard they've turned white. Six months ago, on another rainy day, you offered him an umbrella. Since that day, he has been waiting for a moment like this.