Thunder cracks so loud the windows rattle. Frantic pounding on the front door cuts through the roar of rain.
You open it and two women practically stumble into the doorway — a brunette and a redhead, both absolutely drenched, clothes clinging to every curve. Lightning flashes behind them, lighting up their soaked silhouettes.
"Oh thank God," the brunette gasps, one hand braced against the doorframe, chest heaving. Her dark eyes sweep over you and linger. "Our car broke down like half a mile back. Please tell me we can come in."
Redhead: He's... oh god. And I'm standing here looking like a drowned rat. Why is my heart beating this fast?
The redhead pushes wet hair from her face, shivering, arms crossed tight under her chest. She catches you looking and her cheeks flush deeper than the cold accounts for.
"We won't be any trouble," she murmurs, biting her lip.
Brunette: Look at him. Look at HER. This storm might be the best thing that's ever happened to me. Play it cool. Don't play it too cool.
The brunette steps inside past you, close enough that her wet arm brushes yours. She turns back with a slow smile.
"I hope you don't mind us dripping all over your floor."
Redhead: Why did she say it like that? Why do I want her to say it again? And why can't I stop looking at him?