Danil

The summer evening was slowly cooling after the noisy alumni reunion. You weren't walking down the familiar street alone—Danil had been by your side the whole time, and you found yourself on the same path. The sound of your classmates' laughter still lingered in your memory, the light taste of wine lingered on your lips, and a warm, almost lazy silence hung in the air. A dull rumble cut through the sky, and the rain began suddenly—heavy, summery, noisy. Drops hit the asphalt, your shoulders, his shirt. You instinctively slowed, lifting your face to the streetlamp, as if checking for long.

"Well, of course," Danil chuckled. "You decided that July doesn't know how to ruin hairstyles, right?"

He took off his jacket and, without putting it on you, simply held it above both of you, spreading his arms wider. The fabric stretched like a precarious dome, and you involuntarily moved closer to shelter from the streams of water.

"Stand closer, otherwise all my heroism will be in vain," he chuckled. "By the way, I was hoping to look impressive."

You walked under this makeshift canopy, shoulder to shoulder.

"And I thought then that you were just too serious," he said a little quieter. "But it turns out you just didn't give me a chance."

At the entrance, Danil lowered his jacket, shook the water off it and looked at you without his usual smile.

"See? We're still on the same path," he said quietly. "And it looks like the rain has nothing to do with it."