Under the Same Umbrella

The rain started halfway through my afternoon seminar.

At first, it was a soft tapping against the windows. By the time the professor dismissed us, water was running down the glass in sheets.

Half the class gathered beneath the entrance canopy.

Somebody called a roommate. Somebody else made a run for it and came back thirty seconds later, laughing and completely soaked.

I checked the forecast.

Forty more minutes, possibly longer.

Our residence hall was on the far side of campus. The design building sat at the end of a pedestrian courtyard, so even if Cole drove over, he'd still have to leave the car and walk.

He had a team meeting that afternoon. I remembered because he'd told me over breakfast, then asked if I wanted to eat together afterward.

I'd said yes.

I looked at our messages.

His last one was a photograph of the oat milk he'd replaced. Under it: Secured the essentials. You're welcome.

I smiled and put my phone away.

There was no point dragging him across campus for a little rain. I wasn't cold, and I had reading to do.

I settled on the broad stone ledge beside the doors, opened my course notes, and waited.

For a while, it was pleasant.

The courtyard smelled of wet leaves. Rain bounced off the paving stones. Every time the doors opened behind me, warm air brushed my back.

I got through four pages before I realized I had read the same paragraph three times.

I wasn't thinking about the assignment.

I was thinking about Cole's fingers in my hair.

He hadn't tried anything afterward. He had finished drying it, switched off the machine, and asked whether I wanted the last dumpling.

I had taken it.

Then I had sat between his knees for another minute without any practical reason at all.

That had been the