Chapter 4
FOUR
PARKER
The coffee meeting felt like it was days ago, though it had only been this morning.
Now, by hour six of back-to-back updates, I'd lost track of how many times I'd said the phrase "Stay safe" and how many cups of terrible break room coffee I'd consumed. The answer to both was: too many.
"Parker, we need you back on set in three." Zara's voice crackled through my earpiece.
I nodded, trying to smooth down my hair.
It was a lost cause. The hair and makeup team had given up and now I looked like I'd been dragged through a hurricane myself which, given the circumstances, felt appropriate.
I'd shaved more than once but as I ran a hand over my jaw, I'd need to do it again, and soon.
The storm had intensified faster than anyone predicted. It was Category four now, with winds at 140 miles per hour. And the track had shifted west. It was coming directly toward us.
"How's the latest model look?" I asked Dawson as I passed the weather center.
He didn't look up from his screens and just grunted. His shirt was wrinkled, his tie had disappeared hours ago, and there was a coffee stain on his sleeve that definitely hadn't been there during our 6 PM update.
"Dawson."
"Bad." He finally glanced at me, and I could see the exhaustion in his eyes. "It's bad, Parker. We're looking at direct landfall in approximately eighteen hours."
My stomach dropped. "Evacuations?"
"Emergency management issued orders for zones A and B thirty minutes ago. Zone C will follow within the hour." He pulled up the evacuation map. "We need to get this on air immediately."
"Already cleared with Isla. You're coming on with me for the next segment."
"I know that!" The snap in his voice was unusual. Dawson was always controlled but not tonight.
"I didn't say you weren’t.” I kept my tone even. We were all exhausted and running on fumes and adrenaline. "I wanted to make sure you were ready."
He stood abruptly, shoving papers into a folder. "I've been ready for hours. Let's go."
The segment went smoothly despite the tension. Dawson was brilliant on camera, explaining the evacuation zones with clarity and urgency without causing panic. I translated where needed, kept the energy up, and made sure viewers understood the severity.
When we cut to commercial, he was already heading back to the weather center.
"Dawson, wait."
He stopped and I could see the tension in his shoulders. "What?"
"I know this is stressful, but you're keeping people safe. That's what matters."
His grim expression faded and he gave me a tiny smile. "Yeah. Thanks."
Then he was gone, disappearing back into his world of models and data.
The night wore on. We did more updates and advised on evacuations. Emergency management held a press conference at midnight that we carried live. The mayor urged residents to take the storm seriously and to follow evacuation orders. They had to be prepared for extended power outages.
Around 2 AM, I found myself sitting on the floor in the hallway outside the studio, my back against the wall, drinking what might have been my tenth cup of coffee.
It tasted like burnt cardboard, but at least it was hot.
I'd loosened my tie and rolled up my shirtsleeves, too tired to care about my appearance.
Dawson appeared from around the corner. His shirt was untucked and I caught a glimpse of bare skin. I gulped and didn't want to look away but I was staring and he must have noticed as he put a hand to his waist.
"There's room." I patted the empty space beside me.
He hesitated before sliding down the wall to sit. We weren't touching, but were close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. I inhaled that pine and rain scent that had become oddly comforting over the past few days. The aroma of rain was ironic considering the current weather.
The building was quiet except for the hum of equipment and distant voices from the newsroom and I was aware of his intoxicating cologne—he must have reapplied it because it was strong—that had me wanting to trail my fingers over his jaw.
"I hate this part," Dawson said finally.
"What part?"
"The waiting and the uncertainty." He stared at his coffee cup. "I can give people all the data but in the end, we won't know the real impact until it hits. And by then, it's too late to prepare."
"You've done everything you can. More than most meteorologists would."
"It doesn't feel like it."
I understood the weight of responsibility and the knowledge that people were depending on us to get it right. "We're doing this together. You're not carrying it alone."
He looked at me, and I shivered. His gaze was different somehow.
"Your coffee's cold," he said.
"So is yours."
"Want to go make more terrible coffee?"
"Absolutely."
We hauled ourselves up, and my knees protested, before trudging to the break room. The coffee maker was working overtime, and someone had left out a box of stale donuts. I grabbed one and Dawson raised an eyebrow.
"What? I'm stress eating."
"That donut is at least two days old."
"I've had worse." I bit into it. It was like chewing sweetened cardboard. "Okay, maybe not worse."
The corner of his mouth twitched.
"Did you just almost smile? During a hurricane?"
"No." But it happened again.
"You did. I saw it."
"You're delirious from exhaustion."
"Maybe. But I witnessed it." I poured two fresh cups of terrible coffee and handed him one. "We should get back."
"Probably."
But neither of us moved immediately. The break room was small and fluorescent-lit and smelled of burnt coffee, old donuts and chips but somehow, standing here with Dawson in the middle of the night, it felt like the eye of the storm. A moment of calm before we had to go back out there.
"Parker?" His voice was quieter than usual.
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're here for this." He shuffled his feet and I could have sworn it cost him something to tell me that. "You're good at what you do. I don't say that enough."
My mind went blank for a minute and I let the words sink in. My pulse sped up which was unrelated to the caffeine. "Thanks. That means a lot coming from you."
We headed back to our respective stations. The night continued its relentless march forward. Zara snapped at one of the other camera operators. Someone dropped a coffee mug and it shattered spectacularly. Isla came through in the middle of the night looking as though she'd aged ten years.
"Everyone still alive?" she asked.
"Barely," I said.
"Good. Keep going."
At 5 AM, Dawson and I did another joint segment. This one went less smoothly. I misread the teleprompter, stumbling over evacuation route numbers. He had to correct me on air, which was mortifying.
"I'm sorry," I said as soon as we cut away. "I'm so tired I can barely see straight."
"It's fine. I got it."
"It's not. I made us both look unprofessional."
"Parker." He turned to face me. "We've been at this for hours and everyone's exhausted. You corrected the mistake so let it go."
He was right, but I felt awful. It was my job to be the steady presence and the reliable face viewers trusted. And I'd stumbled over basic information.
"Hey." Dawson's voice was more encouraging. "You're doing great. One small mistake doesn't change that."
"Thanks."
By 6 AM, the sky outside was starting to lighten. The storm was still hours away, but we could see the ominous clouds building on the horizon through the studio windows.
Isla appeared in the doorway. "Okay, everyone who's been here all night go home. Shower and eat something that isn't brown and a carb. Be back by 8:30 for the next push."
I wanted to argue that we should stay, but my body needed a break though we'd only get a little more than an hour.
The parking lot was nearly empty. Dawn was breaking but the air felt heavy and oppressive. It was literally the calm before the storm. I walked toward my car next to Dawson. We'd both parked in the same section without realizing it.
"You should sleep," he said. "Not just shower and come back."
"Says the man who looks like he hasn't slept in three days."
"I'm used to running on no sleep."
"That's not the flex you think it is." I unlocked my car and faced him. He looked exhausted but still dedicated to keeping people safe.
I didn't want to leave him. We were both adults who desperately needed showers and at least an hour of sleep. But standing here in the pre-dawn light, after hours of working side by side, the thought of driving away was wrong somehow.
"See you in a couple hours," I said finally.
"Yeah. Drive safe."
I watched him walk away. Exhaustion had softened his usual rigid posture into something more vulnerable.
He climbed in his truck which was an older model that suited him being practical and no-nonsense.
He sat there for a moment before starting the engine, and I wondered if he felt it too, this strange reluctance to separate.
But he pulled out of the parking lot, and I was alone with the approaching storm and the ache in my chest that had nothing to do with exhaustion.
I could survive two hours away from Dawson. I just wasn't sure I wanted to.