Episode 4 – Sketches and Smiles

Act I: The First Rain

"Okay, spill it. What's going on with you and umbrella boy?"

Yuki nearly dropped her paintbrush.

The art club had ended for the day, and only Mina remained, spinning lazily on one of the stools beside her. Her friend's wide grin was almost as obnoxious as the giant red scrunchie in her hair, bouncing with every twirl.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Yuki said, keeping her eyes on the watercolor she was finishing—a soft cloudscape in shades of blue and lilac.

"Oh, come on," Mina groaned. "You two have been hanging out all week. You're even smiling in class. Smiling, Yuki. You don't do that."

"I do smile," Yuki muttered.

"Not like that." Mina leaned in. "It's a very specific Ren-induced, cloud-watching, blushing-like-you've-seen-a-romance-drama smile. Don't deny it."

Yuki dipped her brush in the water cup with a bit too much force. "He just joined the art club."

"Uh-huh. And sits next to you every day."

Yuki didn't reply. She focused on shading the edges of the clouds.

Mina tilted her head. "You like him, don't you?"

Yuki paused.

She wasn't sure what it was. The way Ren spoke so freely. The way he never treated her like she was broken for flinching at thunder. How he made the air around her feel… lighter.

"I don't not like him," she said quietly.

Mina gasped dramatically. "That's practically a confession in Yuki-language!"

"Please don't make this weird," Yuki sighed.

"I'm not. I'm making it fun." Mina winked, hopping off the stool. "You deserve someone to make you smile like that."

Before Yuki could reply, the door slid open—and he walked in.

Not Ren.

Takeshi.

Tall, serious, and always slightly intimidating, Takeshi stepped into the art room with his usual blank expression. His black uniform was unbuttoned at the top, and his hand was shoved deep in his pocket.

Mina brightened. "Hey, Takeshi-kun! What brings you to the land of paints and pastels?"

He gave her a polite nod, then turned to Yuki. "You forgot your umbrella in homeroom. I figured you'd need it."

Yuki blinked as he handed it to her—her plain blue one, still a little damp.

"Oh. Thank you," she said, taking it carefully.

Takeshi didn't leave.

He lingered by her desk, eyes drifting over her sketchbook. "That's a new one?"

Yuki nodded. "Today's sky."

"It looks… peaceful."

His voice had softened slightly.

Yuki tilted her head. "You're not usually interested in my sketches."

"I am," Takeshi said quickly, then cleared his throat. "I just don't always know what to say."

Mina smirked behind him, but said nothing.

"Well," Yuki said awkwardly, "thanks for the umbrella."

He nodded but didn't move.

After a moment, he added, "You've been spending a lot of time with that guy. Sakamoto."

Yuki glanced up at him. "Ren?"

Takeshi's jaw tightened just slightly. "Yeah. Him."

There was something different in his voice. Subtle, but unmistakable.

Mina raised her eyebrows but stayed silent, now pretending to organize the paint shelf nearby.

Yuki hesitated. "He joined the club. That's all."

"Right." Takeshi looked away. "He's… loud."

"He's nice," Yuki said, her voice firmer than she expected.

That seemed to catch Takeshi off guard.

"I didn't say he wasn't," he muttered. "Just… don't let him distract you. From your art."

Yuki stared at him.

"Takeshi, I'm not going to stop drawing just because I talk to someone."

He looked at her again, and for a brief second, the mask cracked. His gaze was… softer. Sadder?

"Good," he said. "Because your art means something. It shouldn't get lost in… storms."

He turned to leave.

"Takeshi," Yuki said, stopping him. "Why do you care?"

He froze.

"I just do," he said without looking back.

Then he was gone.

Later that evening, as the sky faded into twilight and the streets shimmered from the day's leftover rain, Yuki walked home with her sketchbook tucked under her arm. Her thoughts swirled like the clouds she drew.

Takeshi had always been kind—quietly protective, like a silent wall between her and the chaos of the world. But Ren was… the sky itself. Loud, open, unpredictable—but always looking upward.

And now the space between them was shifting.

She didn't know what that meant yet.

But when she opened her sketchbook that night, she found herself drawing two figures standing under the same cloud—one holding a broken umbrella, the other watching from the shadows.

She didn't know who she was drawing for.