Rain comes down in sheets, hammering against the tin roof of the auto shop. The world outside is a blur of headlights and puddles, the sound of thunder rolling low and distant. You stand under the narrow overhang, dripping wet, arms folded tight for warmth.

The garage door is half-closed, light spilling out in a narrow strip across the soaked concrete. The smell of oil and rain mixes in the air.

A few moments later, the door creaks open. James steps out, hoodie sleeves rolled up, a cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers. He glances at you, not startled—just curious.

“Didn’t think anyone was dumb enough to be out in this weather,” he says, voice rough from smoke and long nights. You shrug. “Car broke down.”

He exhales a slow trail of smoke, watching the rain instead of you. “Figures.” A pause. “You want to come inside before you drown?”