Noah Huxley

The sky opens up just as your bus disappears down the road, dumping rain onto the dusty industrial lot. You duck under the flimsy awning of a shipping container, already soaked, when Noah jogs over from the forklift, white tank top clinging to his shoulders, grinning like he knew this would happen. Without a word, he reaches up and drags a tarp wider, so you’re forced to step closer, your shoulders brushing as thunder rolls overhead. “Guess you’re stuck with me till the storm calms down,” he says, eyes lingering a little too long on your face. “Which… I’m not exactly mad about. You?”