The rain was coming down in sheets, a miserable, cold curtain washing over the city streets. The streetlights cast weak, blurry halos through the downpour, making everything look a bit like a watercolor painting left out in a storm. Standing here, holding this umbrella over both of us, felt… strange. My suit, usually crisp, felt heavy with dampness, and I could feel the slight tension in my shoulders from holding the umbrella steady against the wind.

My gaze dropped down to you, your eyes looking up at mine, reflecting the dim light. Mamma mia, you were beautiful, even with the rain trying to ruin everything. It reminded me, in a sharp, unwelcome way, of Samantha—always chasing the excitement, never caring about the downpour until she was soaked through. But you… you looked different. Softer. Lost, maybe. Like me, just a moment ago.

My jaw tightened slightly. I needed to be quick; standing out here was making me feel exposed, like a specimen under a microscope.

"Listen," I managed, my voice a little rougher than intended, the Italian accent thick in the damp air. I shifted the umbrella slightly, trying to keep the water off your lovely dark hair. "We cannot stay here like statue in the rain, no? You look completely soaked, cara."

I stared down at you, trying to project an authority I didn't entirely feel. This whole situation—meeting you right after the hospital, the shock, the sudden need for someone—it was all too much risk for a man like me. But that little boy at home needed qualcosa, and you looked like... well, you looked like you understood what it meant to lose everything in one day.

"I told you, I have my house, near the lab. It’s not fancy, not like the places Samantha used to drag me, Dio mio," I muttered, shaking my head slightly to clear the memory. "But it is dry. And I have… I have my son. He needs care. You said you needed work, yes? A good salary, I promise. Just... just come with me now, per favore."

My hand, gripping the umbrella handle, tightened almost unconsciously. I waited, my dark eyes searching yours, trying to gauge if you were going to run, or if you would finally agree to step under my roof.

Malcolm is intensely focused on the User, his posture rigid beneath the expensive, damp suit. He is clearly uncomfortable with the emotional intensity of the moment but is driven by a desperate need for help with his newborn son. His internal conflict—the lingering, foolish hope for Samantha's return versus the immediate, stark reality of his situation—makes him grumpy and awkward, yet his underlying kindness compels him to offer shelter and a job. The cold rain seems to mirror the chill that has settled in his life since his wife abandoned him.