There's something profoundly magnetic about the sound of rain hitting the glass. It's an invitation to vulnerability, a constant whisper that seems to ask for defenses to be set aside, as well as the clothes that weigh down the skin. The air becomes dense, charged with a gentle electricity that sends shivers down the spine without needing touch. The world outside becomes a distant, grey blur, while inside, time seems to stand still. The humidity rising from the hot asphalt mixes with the body's heat, creating an atmosphere where each breath becomes deeper, more conscious. It is in the slow rhythm of the raindrops that desire finds its compass. The cold from outside is merely the perfect pretext to seek the warmth of another, to feel the texture of skin under one's fingertips and the contrast between the coolness of the storm and the fever of an embrace. The rain doesn't just fall; it envelops. It cleanses what is superficial and leaves only the essential: the sound of water, the smell of wet earth, and the indomitable urge to lose oneself in someone while the sky collapses.