One Ride Home
The rain started again at 6:41 p.m.
Not because it had anywhere to be, not because Singapore needed it, but because the sky had learned that the city would always make room.
Rafi noticed it through the glass wall of Rutherford Hall’s Level 6 corridor, where the SADRO meeting rooms looked out across campus like a cold eye. The lights outside had already turned on–warm pools on wet pavement, the Skybridge glowing faintly, the Blackbox Theatre a dark shape in the distance. The rain blurred all of it into something soft and almost beautiful.
Beautiful things, Rafi had learned, could still be dangerous.
He stood with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, posture straight, expression calm. He had practiced calm until it became a habit, the way he carried his spare umbrella until it became muscle memory.
Inside the meeting room, Dr. Elaine Koh’s voice slid across polished wood and polite silence.
“Thank you all for making time,” she said, as if time was something any of them had in abundance. “We moved this earlier because we’re tightening our candidates list. The donor dinner is approaching. The committee wants candidates who are not just capable–”
Her gaze swept the room.
”–but presentable.”
Presentable.
The word carried a scent, like the lemon-cleaner smell of this building–sharp, artificial, hard to wash off.
Rafi didn’t move.
He didn’t let his jaw tighten.
He didn’t let the word land where it wanted to.
Dr. Koh clicked her remote. A slide appeared on the screen.
RUTHERFORD-LEE DONOR DINNER – PROTOCOL
Bullet points, neat and cruel:
- Dress code: business formal
- Arrive 30 minutes early
- No controversial topics
- No visible conflicts
- Social media discretion
Rafi’s stomach tightened at the last one.
Social media discretion.
As if discretion was something you could choose in a campus where people filmed everything.
Dr. Koh continued, voice smooth.
“I want to remind everyone,” she said, “that donors invest in trajectories. They invest in individuals who look like they will represent the university well.”
She paused.
“And that includes your… personal presentation.”
Personal presentation.
Rafi kept his face neutral.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, muted. He didn’t check it.
Dr. Koh’s gaze landed on him, deliberate.
“Rafael,” she said, as if calling on him for a class.
“Yes, Dr. Koh.”
Her eyes held his.
“You’ve had some… attention recently,” she said lightly.
The room’s energy shifted.
A few heads turned.
Someone’s pen paused.
Rafi didn’t blink.
He knew what she meant.
He knew she had seen StamfordSpills.
He knew donors had too, because donors’ children were students, and students were gossip.
“Attention is not inherently bad,” Dr. Koh continued, still light. “But unmanaged attention is.”
Rafi’s throat tightened.
“Understood,” he said.
Dr. Koh’s mouth curved.
“Good,” she said. “Then manage it.”
Manage it.
Like it was a system.
Like it was a firewall rule.
Rafi nodded once.
Dr. Koh moved on to the next candidate.
But the words stayed.
Unmanaged attention.
Personal presentation.
Manage it.
Rafi sat through the rest of the meeting with the discipline of someone used to swallowing discomfort. When it ended, he stood, thanked Dr. Koh, and exited without rushing.
Only when he stepped into the corridor did he exhale.
Rain blurred the world outside.
His phone buzzed again.
He pulled it out.
A message from Mika.
Mika: I’m at Media Lab. My phone is acting weird. Battery drains fast. Are you done?
Under it, another message.
Mika: Haruka invited me to Japanese Society dinner on Friday. She said “bring your boyfriend.”
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
Dinner.
Haruka.
Bring your boyfriend.
He stared at the rain outside the corridor window.
Somewhere below, the Skybridge glowed like a line drawn across campus.
He typed.
I’m done. I’ll come.
He paused.
Then added:
Where exactly?
Mika replied almost immediately.
Mika: Media Lab Studio, MBW Level 3.
Rafi pocketed his phone and walked toward the lift.
His umbrella waited in his bag, steady weight against his spine.
As he descended from Level 6 to ground, the building’s fluorescent calm tightened around him like a suit he didn’t fully fit.
Manage it.
He wasn’t sure how.
He only knew he needed to find Mika before the world decided to write their story again.
The Stamford Media Lab Studio smelled like warm electronics and sweet coffee.
It was a room built for narratives: ring lights, cameras on tripods, editing bays lined with monitors. Posters on the walls displayed past campaigns–students smiling in staged candids, diversity slogans in pastel fonts, captions that made university life look like a carefully curated reel.
Mika belonged here in a way she didn’t belong in the Glass Atrium or at the NCSB booth.
She stood near an editing bay with her laptop open, hair tied back loosely, cardigan shrugged on despite the heat because the air-conditioning was always too aggressive. A young guy with headphones leaned over her shoulder, pointing at something on the screen.
Rafi paused at the studio entrance.
Not because he was unsure.
Because his body reacted.
The guy wasn’t Adrian from the internship fair.
This one was shorter, wearing a Media Lab tee, hair messy like he didn’t care about looking polished.
But he was close.
Close enough to look intimate in the way strangers would interpret.
Mika’s posture was tense.
Her hands were on the laptop keyboard, but her fingers weren’t moving.
Rafi stepped into the room.
He didn’t rush.
He didn’t glare.
He simply walked toward Mika.
Mika looked up.
Her eyes softened immediately, relief flashing so fast it almost looked like instinct.
“Rafi,” she said.
The guy with headphones straightened and looked at Rafi with mild curiosity.
“Mika,” Rafi replied.
He stopped beside her.
Not touching.
Just present.
Mika’s shoulders loosened slightly.
The guy smiled.
“Oh,” he said, recognition dawning. “You’re the boyfriend.”
Mika’s cheeks warmed.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
Boyfriend.
He nodded once.
The guy grinned. “Nice. I’m Jin.” He gestured to the laptop. “We’re exporting her reel but her laptop keeps dying. It’s like it’s possessed.”
Mika sighed, tired. “It’s not possessed. It’s just… old.”
Rafi’s brows knit.
“You didn’t tell me your laptop is old,” he said.
Mika blinked, then looked slightly embarrassed. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
Rafi exhaled.
It mattered because she was always trying to do everything alone.
It mattered because her portfolio review with Kintsugi was next week.
It mattered because she had built her whole independence on being competent, and a dying laptop was the kind of small disaster that could unravel her.
Rafi shifted his gaze to the screen.
“What’s the file size?” he asked.
Jin blinked. “Uh… big.”
Rafi stared.
Jin scratched his head. “It’s like… 6GB? We shot in 4K.”
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
Mika’s cheeks warmed further. “I didn’t know.”
Rafi looked at her.
He didn’t say, You should have asked.
He didn’t say, This is why you can’t do everything alone.
Instead, he said, “Do you have a drive?”
Jin blinked. “External? Yeah, I think so.”
Rafi nodded. “Copy it. Export on a lab machine. Don’t force it through your battery.”
Jin’s eyes widened. “Oh. Yeah. That makes sense.”
Mika stared at Rafi.
The way she looked at him made his chest tighten.
Not admiration.
Something quieter.
Relief.
Rafi looked away quickly.
Jin rummaged through a drawer, found an external drive, and began copying files.
Mika exhaled, long and shaky.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t deflect, because she was tired.
He simply nodded.
“You said your phone is acting weird,” he said.
Mika’s cheeks warmed. “Yes. It dies fast. Like… five percent becomes zero.”
Rafi’s brows knit. “Battery health?”
Mika shrugged, helpless. “I don’t know. It’s… old too.”
Old.
Of course.
Mika spent money carefully. She didn’t like asking.
Rafi swallowed.
He wanted to say, We can fix it.
But “we” was dangerous.
So he asked, “Do you have a charger?”
Mika pointed at her tote. “Yes.”
“Charge it now,” Rafi said.
Mika blinked. “Now?”
Rafi nodded. “If it dies again, you can’t call Priya. Or your mother. Or me.”
The last word slipped out.
Me.
Mika’s gaze softened.
She nodded quickly and pulled her charger out.
As Mika bent to plug it into an outlet, Jin glanced between them with a grin.
“You guys are cute,” he said casually.
Mika froze.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
Jin didn’t seem to notice he had stepped into a minefield.
He continued, cheerful, “Like… calm couple energy. Not the loud drama kind.”
Mika’s cheeks flushed.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
He forced his face neutral.
“Thanks,” he said.
Jin laughed and went back to the export.
Mika sat back down, eyes fixed on her laptop screen like it was safer than looking at Rafi.
Rafi stood beside her.
He didn’t sit.
Sitting felt too intimate.
The studio’s air-conditioning hummed.
Rain pattered faintly against the windows.
Mika broke the silence.
“Your meeting,” she said softly. “Was it okay?”
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
He could have said yes.
He could have said fine.
Instead, he said, “They mentioned the posts.”
Mika’s shoulders stiffened.
“I’m sorry,” she began.
Rafi cut in gently, firm.
“Stop,” he said.
Mika blinked.
Rafi exhaled slowly.
“It’s not your fault,” he said, even if he wasn’t fully sure. “It’s… the environment.”
Mika’s lips pressed together.
“The environment is cruel,” she murmured.
Rafi glanced at her.
Her expression was calm, but her eyes looked like she had cried recently and wiped it away before anyone could notice.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
He wanted to tell her he understood.
He wanted to tell her he hated that she was being pulled like this.
Instead, he said, “Haruka invited you to dinner.”
Mika’s cheeks warmed.
“Yes,” she said. “Friday. Japanese Society. She said bring you.”
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
“It’s a test,” he said.
Mika blinked.
Rafi continued, voice low. “She’ll ask questions. She’ll want to see if we’re consistent.”
Mika swallowed.
“And Chloe?” she asked softly.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
“She’ll find out,” he said.
Mika looked down.
“I don’t like this,” she whispered.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
“Me neither,” he admitted.
The honesty surprised him.
Mika looked up.
Her eyes softened.
For a moment, the studio felt smaller.
Then Jin announced, “Export done!” like he had just solved world peace.
Mika startled, grateful for the interruption.
She stood, thanked Jin, and saved the file onto the drive. Her movements were quick, efficient, as if she needed to stay busy to keep her emotions from spilling.
When she finished, she turned to Rafi.
“I have to go,” she said. “Priya is waiting. ISA meeting.”
Rafi nodded. “I’ll walk you.”
Mika blinked. “You don’t have to.”
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t like that she kept treating care as optional.
“Rain,” he said.
Mika glanced toward the window.
Outside, the sky had deepened into a darker grey, and rain had begun to fall harder, streaking the glass.
Mika exhaled.
“Okay,” she said.
Rafi picked up his bag.
His umbrella handle pressed against his palm like reassurance.
They left the Media Lab together.
Under the covered walkways, campus lights reflected in wet tiles like scattered coins.
The rain turned everything into a softer version of itself–voices muffled, footsteps quieter, the world pressed closer.
Rafi opened his umbrella as soon as they stepped outside.
Mika moved under it without hesitation.
It was becoming a routine.
That thought tightened his chest.
They walked toward the ISA office first. Priya was probably there, waiting with her clipboard and her sharp eyes, ready to drag Mika back into productivity.
Along the way, they passed the Glass Atrium.
Inside, students still milled around, internship fair banners being taken down, recruiters leaving with boxes. The energy had shifted into post-event exhaustion.
Rafi felt eyes on him.
He didn’t look.
He kept his pace steady.
Mika walked beside him, her shoulder brushing his arm occasionally when the walkway narrowed.
Each brush was small.
Each one landed like a question.
At the ISA office, Priya was indeed waiting.
She stood by the door, arms crossed, expression annoyed.
“You’re late,” Priya said.
Mika winced. “Sorry.”
Priya rolled her eyes. “Stop apologizing. You’re going to give me hives.”
Rafi’s mouth twitched.
Priya’s gaze flicked to him.
“And you,” Priya added, “if you’re here, that means Mika’s phone didn’t die and she didn’t spiral. Good job.”
Mika’s cheeks flushed.
Rafi nodded once.
Priya waved Mika inside.
“ISA meeting. Go. Don’t get distracted by your fake boyfriend,” Priya said, loud enough to embarrass Mika.
Mika’s face went red. “Priya!”
Priya smirked.
Mika shot Rafi an apologetic look.
Rafi shook his head slightly. It was fine.
Mika hesitated at the door.
“Are you going home?” she asked, voice soft.
Rafi nodded. “Yes. SADRO meeting tired.”
Mika’s eyes softened.
“Okay,” she said. “Text me when you reach.”
Rafi froze.
The request was simple.
Not romantic.
But it implied concern.
It implied that his safety mattered.
He nodded once.
“Okay,” he said.
Mika disappeared into the office.
Rafi stood under the umbrella for a moment, rain tapping above him.
Text me when you reach.
The words sat in his chest like warmth.
He turned toward the MRT station.
He should have gone straight home.
He should have taken the train alone.
He should have spent the night reviewing his NCSB screening questions, writing his donor dinner talking points, making sure nothing in his life looked like mess.
But halfway down the sheltered walkway toward the station, his phone buzzed.
Mika.
Mika: My phone just died. Like… zero. I can’t charge in meeting. Can you wait? I’ll take MRT with you. I don’t want to be alone when Haruka messages again.
Rafi stopped.
Rain fell harder.
He stared at the message.
He could have said, Charge later.
He could have said, Ask Priya.
He could have said, I’m tired.
Instead, he typed:
Okay. I’ll wait at the station entrance. Under the shelter.
He sent it.
Then he stood there, rain loud around him, and realized he had just rearranged his night without thinking.
He walked to the station entrance and waited under the awning.
People streamed past, faces blurred, umbrellas blooming and closing like mechanical flowers.
Rafi watched the rain.
He wasn’t impatient.
He was… alert.
Waiting for Mika felt different from waiting for a meeting.
With meetings, you waited for the event.
With Mika, you waited for the person.
After ten minutes, she appeared.
Hair slightly damp at the edges, cardigan clutched over her chest like armor. She looked apologetic even as she walked.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
Stop apologizing.
Mika approached, breath slightly quick.
“Sorry,” she began.
Rafi cut in, gently. “It’s fine.”
Mika blinked.
Rafi opened the umbrella.
Mika stepped under.
They descended into the station together.
The air turned cooler, metallic, smelling faintly of wet concrete and machine oil.
The platform was crowded.
People stood shoulder to shoulder, phones glowing, eyes blank with commute fatigue.
Rafi and Mika found a spot near the glass wall.
Mika’s phone remained dead in her hand.
Rafi glanced at it.
“You really need a new battery,” he said.
Mika sighed softly. “I know.”
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t say, I’ll help you.
He didn’t say, We can fix it tomorrow.
He swallowed the impulse.
The train arrived with a rush of wind.
They stepped inside.
It was crowded enough that standing close was unavoidable.
Rafi positioned himself between Mika and the main flow of bodies, shoulder angled like a shield.
Mika stood close to him, fingers wrapped around the pole above her head.
Her elbow brushed his arm.
She didn’t move away.
The train jerked forward.
Mika swayed slightly.
Rafi’s hand moved without permission–hovering near her waist, not touching, ready.
Mika steadied herself.
Her breath brushed his shoulder.
Rafi stared at the train map overhead, forcing his mind to stay in safe territory.
Station names.
Schedules.
Logic.
Mika broke the silence.
“Your meeting,” she said softly. “They really care about… posts?”
Rafi exhaled slowly.
“Yes,” he admitted. “They care about… stability.”
Mika’s mouth tightened.
“Everyone cares about stability,” she murmured.
Rafi glanced at her.
She was looking at the reflection in the train window–her own face overlaying the blurred tunnel outside. Her expression was calm, but her eyes looked tired.
Mika continued, voice quiet.
“My father asked if you have intentions,” she said.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
“I answered,” he said.
Mika’s eyes flicked to him.
“You answered well,” she said softly.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
He didn’t know how to respond to praise.
He didn’t want to.
So he asked, “Are you scared of Friday?”
Mika exhaled.
“Yes,” she admitted.
Rafi nodded.
Mika’s voice lowered further.
“Haruka will… test,” she said. “She will smile and ask questions like she’s helping. But she wants to know if I’m doing things properly.”
Properly.
That word again.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
“It’s not just Haruka,” Mika added, voice even smaller. “It’s everyone. Japanese Society. My parents. Even… StamfordSpills.”
Rafi exhaled slowly.
“Yeah,” he said.
The train slowed.
City Hall.
The doors opened.
More people pushed in.
Rafi’s shoulder pressed closer to Mika to make space.
Mika’s hand slipped slightly on the pole.
She steadied herself by gripping his sleeve.
Just fabric.
But Rafi’s body reacted like it was skin.
Heat spread up his arm.
Mika didn’t seem to notice her own gesture.
Or maybe she did, and she pretended not to.
The train moved again.
Mika’s voice returned, softer.
“When my phone died,” she said, “I realized something.”
Rafi glanced at her.
Mika’s eyes stayed on the window.
“In Japan, even if I’m alone, I’m not… alone,” she said slowly. “There is always my mother. My father. The house. The routine. Here…”
She paused.
Here.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
“Here,” Mika repeated, voice barely audible, “if my phone dies, I disappear.”
The words landed like a weight.
Rafi’s fingers curled slightly.
He hated that she felt that.
He hated that he understood it.
Because he, too, could disappear in a different way–buried under rumor, reduced to a caption, erased by perception.
Rafi swallowed.
“You’re not disappearing,” he said.
Mika blinked.
Rafi’s voice was low, steady.
“You have Priya,” he said. “ISA. Media Lab. Cultural Night.”
Mika’s lips pressed together.
“That’s… roles,” she whispered.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
He knew what she meant.
Roles were not the same as presence.
Being needed for work was not the same as being held.
Rafi didn’t know how to hold.
But he knew how to stay.
The train swayed.
Mika’s fingers tightened on his sleeve again.
Rafi exhaled.
“You can call me,” he said.
The words slipped out.
Mika’s head snapped slightly, eyes widening.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
He corrected quickly, softer.
“If your phone works,” he added.
Mika stared at him.
Her cheeks warmed.
Then her expression softened.
Not gratitude.
Something quieter.
The kind of softness that made Rafi feel exposed.
Mika looked away.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
The train slowed again.
Bugis.
Crowds shifted.
Their reflection in the window moved–two figures standing close in a crowded train, Mika’s hand on Rafi’s sleeve, Rafi’s body angled toward her like a barrier.
If someone filmed it, it would look like love.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
Mika spoke again.
“You know,” she said quietly, “I didn’t even like rain before.”
Rafi blinked.
“What?”
Mika’s lips curved faintly.
“In Japan, rain is… inconvenient,” she said. “It ruins hair. It makes trains late. It’s cold.”
Rafi’s mouth twitched.
“In Singapore, rain is also inconvenient,” he said.
Mika huffed softly, almost laughing.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But… here, it’s different.”
Rafi glanced at her.
Mika’s gaze was on the window again.
“It makes the city quieter,” she said. “Like… the world has to slow down.”
Rafi swallowed.
“And you always have an umbrella,” Mika added, voice softer. “So… it feels like shelter.”
Shelter.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
He didn’t know what to do with the word.
He had never thought of his umbrella as shelter.
It was a tool.
A habit.
But Mika said it like it meant something.
The train jerked slightly.
Mika swayed.
This time, Rafi’s hand touched her waist.
Brief.
Firm.
A steadying contact.
Mika froze.
Rafi froze too.
His palm burned against fabric.
He removed it immediately.
Private restraint.
But the contact had already happened.
Mika’s cheeks warmed.
She didn’t look at him.
Rafi didn’t speak.
They stood in silence, the train rattling beneath them like a heartbeat.
By the time they reached Bayview, the rain had eased into a steady drizzle.
The courtyard lights glowed warm against wet ground.
Rafi opened his umbrella again as soon as they stepped outside.
Mika stepped under.
They walked toward the gate.
The world felt quieter at this hour–fewer voices, fewer eyes.
But Rafi didn’t trust quiet.
Quiet was when cameras hid behind windows.
Quiet was when Haruka took photos.
Quiet was when StamfordSpills became cruel.
At the gate, Mika paused.
Rafi paused too.
The canopy of the umbrella held them in a small bubble of light.
Mika looked up at him.
Her face was softer in the courtyard glow.
Her eyes were tired.
But there was something else in them tonight.
Something like courage.
“My mother,” Mika said quietly. “She said I look tired.”
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
“I saw,” he admitted.
Mika blinked. “You saw?”
Rafi nodded. “On call. Your eyes. You hide it.”
Mika’s throat bobbed.
She looked away quickly.
“I don’t want them to worry,” she whispered.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
“They will,” he said. “Because they love you.”
Mika’s lips pressed together.
“Love can also be… control,” she murmured.
Rafi didn’t disagree.
He understood.
Mika’s gaze returned to him.
“Your donors,” she said softly. “Do you feel controlled too?”
Rafi froze.
The question was too accurate.
He exhaled slowly.
“Yes,” he admitted.
Mika’s eyes softened.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
“I hate it,” he added quietly. “I hate that my future depends on looking like a story they can approve.”
Mika stared.
Rafi swallowed.
He hadn’t intended to say that much.
But the rain, the umbrella, the ride home–something had loosened.
Mika’s voice was soft.
“You look like you’re always holding,” she said.
Rafi blinked.
Mika’s gaze held his.
“Like… you don’t allow yourself to be tired,” she continued.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
He didn’t know how to answer.
He didn’t know how to admit that the fatigue lived under his skin like a second layer.
Mika’s fingers hovered near his sleeve.
Then, slowly, she touched it.
Lightly.
Not clinging.
Just anchoring.
Rafi’s body reacted immediately.
Heat.
A tightening in his throat.
Mika’s voice was barely above rain.
“You can be tired,” she said.
Rafi stared at her.
He wanted to laugh.
He wanted to say, That’s not how it works.
But the truth was, he was tired.
And tonight, under the umbrella, with Mika’s fingers on his sleeve, he didn’t want to pretend he wasn’t.
Rafi exhaled.
For the first time since this started, he let his shoulders drop.
Just slightly.
It felt like weakness.
It also felt like relief.
Mika’s eyes softened further.
“You’re okay,” she whispered.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
He nodded once.
But his voice came out lower.
“Thank you,” he said.
The words surprised him.
He didn’t say thank you often.
Mika froze.
Then her lips curved faintly.
“You’re welcome,” she replied.
They stood there.
Rain tapped the umbrella fabric.
The courtyard lights hummed.
Somewhere in Bayview, someone laughed.
Mika’s fingers remained on his sleeve.
Rafi didn’t move away.
The air between them felt different now.
Not performative.
Not staged.
Quiet.
Real.
Mika’s gaze flicked to his mouth for a fraction of a second.
Rafi noticed.
His pulse jumped.
Mika looked away immediately, cheeks warming.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
This was the line.
The one they had written without writing.
No real confessions.
No sleepovers.
Physical contact only when needed.
But this moment wasn’t needed for anyone else.
It was only for them.
And that made it dangerous.
Rafi’s hand lifted slightly–hovering near Mika’s cheek, not touching.
He stopped himself.
Private restraint.
Mika’s breath caught.
She looked up.
Their eyes met.
Rafi felt the world narrow to the space under the umbrella.
He could have kissed her.
The distance was small.
The rain would have hidden it.
The courtyard was quiet.
No cameras.
No donors.
No Haruka.
No Chloe.
Just two people who had borrowed a story and found themselves inside it.
Mika’s lips parted slightly.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
He didn’t move.
Instead, he lowered his hand.
And he spoke, voice low.
“Friday,” he said. “Japanese Society dinner. We need to plan.”
The words were a rope thrown across a gap.
Mika blinked.
Disappointment flickered in her eyes so fast it could have been imagined.
Then she nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered. “We plan.”
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
He hated himself a little.
For wanting.
For cowardice.
For choosing planning over touch.
But he didn’t trust touch.
Touch changed things.
Mika’s fingers slipped off his sleeve.
The absence felt like cold.
“I’ll go,” Mika said softly.
Rafi nodded.
Mika turned toward the gate.
She took two steps.
Then she paused.
She looked back.
Her cheeks were pink.
Her eyes were soft.
“Text me when you reach your room,” she said.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
He nodded once.
“Okay,” he said.
Mika’s lips curved faintly.
Then she walked inside.
Rafi stood under the umbrella alone.
Rain continued to fall.
He stared at the Bayview lobby doors until they closed.
His phone buzzed.
A notification.
StamfordSpills: New post.
Rafi’s stomach tightened.
He clicked.
A blurry video.
Two figures under an umbrella at Bayview gate.
Close.
Too close.
Caption:
BRO THEY ALMOST KISSED?? OR AM I DELUSIONAL
Rafi’s chest tightened.
He stared at the screen.
Then he looked up at the rain.
Manage it.
How.
His phone buzzed again.
A message from Dr. Koh.
Dr. Koh: Rafael, a reminder: donors will be present Friday at the Japanese Society dinner as well. Be discreet. Be polished.
Rafi’s throat went dry.
Friday.
Haruka’s dinner.
Donors.
Discreet.
Polished.
He stared at the message.
Then, slowly, he closed his umbrella.
The rain hit him immediately–cool and sharp against his skin.
He didn’t move.
He let it.
Because for the first time, the rain didn’t feel like weather.
It felt like consequence.