Rory
The storm hit harder than either of us expected, rain hammering the garage's metal roof with a violence that made conversation nearly impossible for the first twenty minutes, and by the time it eased into something merely torrential, both of us were fully, thoroughly stranded, the last train of practical excuses to leave gone along with the last dry patch of sky.
I'd texted Sam somewhere in the middle of the worst of it, more out of habit than any real intention of explaining the situation. **Me:** trapped in a garage with Dray during a thunderstorm, this is either the beginning of a very good story or a very bad one. Her reply had come back almost instantly — **Sam:** please for the love of god make good choices — and I'd laughed out loud at it, alone at the workbench, before Dray
