9. Lila #3
The road climbs gradually toward the ridge, offering an increasingly panoramic view of the landscape.
The storm system dominates the western horizon now, clouds building into towering monsters that seem to defy gravity.
The light has changed too, taking on that peculiar greenish-yellow quality that makes everything look alien.
“The coloration in those clouds,” Jonah murmurs, “the light scattering through ice crystals at that altitude combined with dust particulates in the lower atmosphere.”
“It's storm light,” I say simply. “When the world turns this color, it's time to pay attention.”
I pull the truck to a stop at the highest point of the ridge and cut the engine. “This is it. Our front-row seat.”
The silence hits me first—that peculiar hush that falls before a major storm, like the world is holding its breath. I crack my window further, letting in the scent of the approaching system. The air tastes different here, charged with potential.
“Start setting up your equipment,” I tell Jonah, reaching behind my seat for my gear bag. “We’ve got about twenty minutes before things get interesting.”
He nods once and climbs out of the truck.
The shift in him catches me off guard.
Gone is the awkward professor who blushes when I flirt with him or nearly chokes to death over a suggestive coffee comment. The second we step into storm territory, something in Jonah settles into place.
He moves around the truck with steady purpose, unloading equipment and checking instruments with a level of confidence I haven’t seen from him outside meteorology. No second-guessing. No nervous energy. Just complete focus.
It’s…attractive. Annoyingly attractive.
There’s something deeply unfair about watching a man go from socially awkward academic to this quietly capable version of himself in under thirty seconds.
Especially when he looks like that doing it—shirt sleeves rolled up against the heat, dark hair shifting in the strengthening wind while concentration sharpens his features.
I drag my attention away before my brain completely abandons the assignment.
Grabbing my primary camera and tripod, I move several yards from the truck where I’ll have a clean view of the approaching storm. The wind has picked up noticeably now, tugging strands of hair loose around my face as I secure the tripod legs against the increasingly aggressive gusts.
Behind me, I hear Jonah adjusting one of the portable sensors.
“No way,” he says suddenly.
I glance back toward him. “What?”
He’s staring at the sky now, eyes locked on the lowering cloud base in the distance with something dangerously close to awe written across his face.
“The inflow velocity,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Your positioning was exactly right.”
The excitement in his voice catches me off guard. Not because he’s impressed. Because he sounds genuinely happy to be here. Like somewhere between Oklahoma and Texas, this stopped being just research for him.
And for reasons I probably shouldn’t think about too hard, that matters to me.
“Pressure's dropping fast,” Jonah calls out, attention fixed on one of his instruments. “Faster than the model predicted.”
“Welcome to reality,” I shout back over the rising wind. “Where storms don't read textbooks.”
I adjust my camera settings, framing the massive supercell that's now fully developed on the horizon.
Through the viewfinder, I can see the supercell's structure with clarity—the rotating mesocyclone, the crisp edges of the anvil, the wall cloud beginning to form.
But something's missing from this vantage point.
“I need a better angle,” I mutter, lowering the camera. I jog back to the truck and pop the rear hatch, then crouch down and work loose the tie-downs securing a large hard-sided Pelican case beneath the rest of my gear.
“What’s that?” Jonah calls over, squinting against the wind.
I flip the latches and lift the lid. “Jonah, meet Stormy Daniels.” Nestled in custom-cut foam is my weather drone—matte white, carbon fiber propellers folded flat against her body, atmospheric sensors mounted along the undercarriage like a tiny fighter jet.
I’ve put more miles on her than most cars.
“Did you just name your drone after a porn star?”
I nearly drop the drone on my foot. My head snaps up to find Jonah standing a few feet away, one eyebrow arched in a way that makes my face heat up immediately.
“What?” I stutter, caught completely off guard. “You know who Stormy Daniels is?”
The wind picks up, whipping my hair across my face as I stare at him in disbelief. The last person I expected to recognize the reference is Professor “I’ve-Only-Ever-Worn-Khakis” Reed.
Jonah shrugs, but there’s a slight pink tinge rising up his neck. “I do watch the news occasionally.”
“Occasionally?” I set the drone down carefully, giving him my full attention now. “The woman is a footnote in American political history, not exactly front page material anymore.”
“She was central to multiple Supreme Court cases regarding campaign finance.” His tone shifts into what I’ve come to recognize as his lecture voice. “Not to mention the broader implications for the First Amendment and defamation law.”
I cross my arms, not buying it for a second. “You’re telling me you know about Stormy Daniels from Supreme Court cases?”
“Well, that and—” He pauses, clears his throat. “I’m not a monk, Lila.”
“You’re not...” I repeat, the implications hitting me like a lightning bolt. “Wait. Are you saying you watched her...films?”
Now the blush has spread to his ears. “I’m saying I’m aware of her existence beyond just the political scandal.”
“Oh my god.” I can’t help the laugh that bursts out of me. “Professor Reed, did you just admit to watching adult films?”
“I didn’t admit to anything,” he says quickly, but he’s smiling now, that genuine smile that completely transforms his face. “I simply pointed out that I’m not completely isolated from mainstream culture.”
“Sure, sure.” I shake my head, grinning as I check the drone’s battery. “Next you’ll tell me you’ve seen ‘The Bachelor’ too.”
“Absolutely not. That’s where I draw the line.” A beat of silence. He drags a hand down his face while I laugh harder, and honestly, discovering how easy it is to fluster Jonah might become my favorite hobby. “I have to know. Why did you name your drone after a porn star?”
“She goes where others won't, gets the money shots, and makes powerful men nervous,” I reply with a wink. “Seems fitting.”
His face flushes as he processes my joke, but curiosity quickly overtakes his embarrassment. He approaches for a closer look as I lift the drone from its case.
“This gives me a bird's eye view of the tornado structure,” I explain, checking the battery levels and camera gimbal. “I can fly her right up to the edge of the circulation and get footage no ground camera could capture.”
“I'd love to see that footage,” Jonah says, stepping closer to examine the drone. His scientific curiosity is clearly piqued. “The perspective would be invaluable for validating vertical wind shear patterns.”
“It's even better than you think,” I reply, powering up the controller. “I've modified her with atmospheric sensors that transmit real-time data on temperature, pressure, and humidity at different altitudes.”
I check the radar one last time on my phone. The supercell is intensifying rapidly, its hook echo now clearly defined. Perfect conditions.
“Ready for launch,” I announce, setting the drone on the ground a safe distance away. With practiced movements, I initiate the takeoff sequence. Stormy's propellers whir to life, kicking up small dust clouds as she rises smoothly into the air.
I gesture for Jonah to come closer. “Here, you can watch the feed with me.”
He steps beside me, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine as he leans in to see the controller screen. The contact is light—barely there—but my body notices it immediately anyway.
The wind whips across the open field, carrying the charged scent of rain and dirt and ozone, but all I’m suddenly aware of is Jonah beside me. The heat of him. The solid line of his arm against mine.
“Amazing,” he murmurs near my ear.
The low roughness in his voice sends a shiver down my spine that has absolutely nothing to do with the storm.
I swallow once and force myself to focus on the drone feed.
Above us, the supercell dominates the sky like something alive. From the drone’s perspective, the storm looks almost unreal—massive rotating structure layered in dark bands, the wall cloud tightening beneath it as inflow winds drag warm air upward.
“Look,” I say quietly. “It’s starting.”
Through the live feed, the rotation sharpens visibly. Faster. Tighter. The lowering wall cloud begins stretching downward in slow motion, tentative at first, like the storm itself is deciding whether to touch the ground.
“Incredible,” Jonah breathes.
His hand lands on the small of my back.
It’s light. Barely there. Just the flat of his palm settling against the curve above my waistband like it belongs there. The warmth of it bleeds through the thin cotton of my flannel and spreads across my skin in a wave that has no business being as good as it feels.
My brain stutters for half a second.
Then the drone feed does something terrifying.
“Jonah, look—” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended. I don’t pull away from his hand. I should. I absolutely should. Instead, I shift my weight a fraction of an inch toward him because I am apparently allergic to making smart decisions around this man.
The wall cloud reaches lower. Lower. I feel the air pressure drop in my ears again, that deep pop-pop-pop like the world is swallowing itself.
“There,” Jonah says quietly, and his thumb moves once against my spine. Just once. Like he’s not entirely aware he’s doing it.
Above us, the funnel drops.