12. Jonah #2
“No,” she agrees softly this time. “Probably not. The doctor wants me to take a few days before I’m back at full speed so for the next few days, you’re driving.”
“A few days?” I blink at her. “Lila, you needed twenty-seven stitches. You lost enough blood to pass out. You have a concussion.”
“And your point is…?”
I stare at her. “My point is that most people would take time to recover.”
“When have I ever given you the impression I’m most people?” There’s that spark again, challenging me.
I open my mouth to argue, but the words die on my tongue.
She's right. nothing “normal” about her.
It's what makes her exceptional at what she does, and what terrifies me about her at the same time. That willingness to push past the pain and injuries to keep on going is either stupid or brave, and I can’t decide which one describes the situation more.
“I think I’ll like being a passenger princess.” Lila grins faintly from the hospital bed, then immediately winces when the movement pulls at her injured shoulder. “But I get to pick the radio station.”
I stare at her for a full second, convinced I must have misheard.
“You cannot seriously expect me to continue the research expedition while you’re injured.”
“Why not?” she asks, like this is the most reasonable conversation in the world. “Storm season doesn’t stop because I got stabbed by airborne debris.”
She shifts carefully against the pillows, trying to disguise another flicker of pain.
I notice anyway. I notice everything now. Every tight breath. Every guarded movement. Every tiny sign that she’s hurting. The image of her collapsing flashes through my head again so suddenly it almost knocks the air out of me.
“Besides,” she continues, stubborn as ever, “I can direct you from the passenger seat just fine.”
“That is completely irresponsible.”
Lila’s eyebrows lift . “Do you or do you not need the data?”
“Screw the data, Lila.”
The words leave me before I can temper them.
Her expression stills. And suddenly I can hear how emotional I sound. Raw. Frayed open in ways I’m not used to letting anyone see.
“You could have died today.”
The room falls silent except for the steady beep of the monitor beside her bed.
I can feel her blood on my hands. Still hear myself begging her to stay awake while I drove.
Still remember the horrible split second when she stopped responding and something inside me nearly came apart completely.
It terrifies me how much that fear lives in my chest.
Lila’s expression softens slowly as she looks at me.
“You’re right,” she says quietly. “I could’ve died.” Her fingers brush lightly against mine where my hand rests beside the bed. “But I didn’t.”
Because of you. She doesn’t say it out loud, but I hear it anyway. Emotion lodges painfully in my throat.
“This is insane,” I murmur, dragging a hand through my hair. “You need rest. Actual recovery. Not more storms.”
“I’ll rest,” she says gently. “In the passenger seat while you drive.”
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. The absurd part is that I know she means it. Lila would crawl into a storm half-conscious if she thought the work mattered enough.
And maybe that’s part of why I?—
My thoughts stop abruptly before I can finish that sentence.
She reaches out then, carefully sliding her hand over mine. The contact is small. Soft.
“I’m not asking you to throw me back into the field tomorrow,” she says more quietly now. “I’m asking you to help me finish what we started.”
I look down at our hands. At the stubborn woman lying in this hospital bed who somehow cares more about the research than the stitches in her arm. And beneath all the fear clawing through me is something else now.
Because the truth is, if Lila asked me to follow her into another storm tomorrow, I already know I would.
I shake my head, incredulous. “Absolutely not. We can wait until you're healed.”
“Storm season doesn’t last forever, Jonah. You have a few weeks at most to get this data.”
I'm about to argue further when I hear footsteps approaching down the hallway. Lila's eyes widen.
“That's the nurse coming back,” she hisses, suddenly urgent. “Quick, hide Max in the bathroom.”
“What? I can't just?—”
“Do you want them to kick him out?”
I scramble to my feet, gesturing frantically for Max to follow me. The dog looks between us, clearly reluctant to leave Lila's side.
“Go,” Lila mouths, gesturing toward the bathroom with her good hand.
I pat my thigh, trying to get Max's attention. “Come on, boy,” I whisper urgently.
Max gives Lila one last mournful look before reluctantly following me into the small hospital bathroom. I close the door just as the nurse enters the room, leaving it open just a crack so I can hear what's happening.
“Time’s up,” the nurse announces firmly. “Ms. Brooks needs her rest, and you need to take that dog out of the hospital.”
“What dog?” Lila asks, all innocence. I can practically picture the look she’s putting on.
I press a finger to my lips, silently urging Max to stay quiet. He looks up at me, tail giving a small, uncertain wag, like he understands how serious this is. For a dog who’s been through so much in the past twenty-four hours, he’s holding it together impressively.
“The golden retriever,” the nurse replies, unimpressed. “Don’t play games with me. I saw it when you came in.”
“Oh, that dog,” Lila replies, her words slurred from the medication. “My boyfriend must’ve taken him outside already. Such a good boyfriend. Did you see how fast he drove me here? Like a NASCAR driver but with better hair.”
I nearly choke trying to hold back a laugh, pressing a hand over my mouth to stay quiet while Max looks up at me with what I swear is judgment.
Boyfriend. I shouldn’t like it this much. But hearing Lila call me that sends the same warm rush through me that I felt back at the sporting goods store when she wrapped an arm around my waist and casually referred to me as her husband.
Fake. Both times completely fake and yet my brain apparently doesn’t care about technicalities.
“The hot nerdy guy with the dog? Like Clark Kent if he studied weather patterns instead of being a reporter. Speaking of patterns, did you know the barometric pressure dropped twelve millibars right before I got hit by that metal sheet?”
I rest my forehead against the cool bathroom door, mortified and, somehow, a little flattered. Nerdy, hot? Clark Kent? No one’s ever compared me to a superhero before—even one in disguise.
“Ms. Brooks, I think you should rest now,” the nurse adds, her tone softening. “The medication is clearly affecting you.”
“That's what he said too! See, you two agree on something. You should have let him stay longer.”
Max nudges my leg with his nose, looking up at me with an expression that seems to say, “Aren't you going to do something?” I shake my head , signaling him to stay put. The last thing we need is to be permanently banned from the hospital.
“He can come back during regular visiting hours tomorrow. Right now, you need sleep.”
I hear shuffling, the sound of the IV stand being adjusted, vital signs being checked. Through the crack in the door, I can see the nurse adjusting Lila's blankets, her back to me as she checks the monitors.
“There. Now get some rest. The doctor will be in to check on you in the morning.”
I hear Lila sigh dramatically as the nurse’s footsteps fade down the hall. After a moment of quiet, she calls out, softer now, “Coast is clear, Clark Kent.”
I push the bathroom door open, heat creeping up my cheeks. Max trots out ahead of me, heading straight back to her bedside like he was never gone.
“Clark Kent?” I ask, lifting a brow.
Lila grins up at me, her focus a little off from the medication. “It was the first thing that came to mind. Besides, you did save me today.”
“I’m hardly Superman,” I mutter, deeply uneasy with the comparison.
“You were today,” she replies simply, her usual sarcasm softened around the edges.
Then her eyes drift deliberately down my body before sliding back up again.
“Though honestly? You seem more like a Marvel guy. And with your butt, you could definitely be Captain America.” Her mouth curves slowly. “You know. America’s ass.”
My brain completely stops functioning.
Lila is openly staring at me. Openly flirting with me.
And somehow that catches me off guard every single time.
Because part of me keeps expecting this to disappear.
The teasing. The attraction simmering underneath every conversation.
The way she looks at me sometimes like she’s genuinely tempted by me.
But she’s looking at me like that right now.
Even bruised and exhausted in a hospital bed, she’s watching me with warm amusement and unmistakable interest, and the realization hits me square in the chest.
Lila wants me, and I have absolutely no idea what to do with that information. Especially because a horrifyingly large part of me wants to walk back to the bed, kiss her senseless, and find out whether she’d be teasing me afterward.
Instead, I latch onto the only safe thing available.
The dog.
I clear my throat roughly and turn toward Max, who’s settled beside the bed with his chin resting dramatically on the mattress like he’s supervising the entire interaction.
“We should probably go before they come back and actually throw us out.”
“You’re right,” Lila agrees, quieter now. “You should take Max and find somewhere to stay tonight. Preferably somewhere with a shower.” Her gaze drifts meaningfully to my bloodstained hands and clothes.
I look down at myself properly for the first time since arriving at the hospital. My clothes are a disaster—Lila's blood has dried in dark patches across my shirt and jeans. There's mud caked on my boots. I must look like I just walked off a crime scene.
“I'll come back first thing in the morning,” I promise.
“Bring coffee,” she mumbles, her eyelids already drooping. The medication is finally winning the battle against her stubborn determination to stay awake. “The good kind. Not hospital swill.”
“I will.” I hesitate, then add, “Is there anyone I should call? Your sister, maybe?”
Lila's eyes fly open, suddenly alert despite the drugs. “Emily.” She tries to sit up straighter and winces. “My phone's in my bag. Password is 0523.”
“I'll handle it,” I assure her, gently pressing her back against the pillows. “What specifically should I tell her? I don't want to say the wrong thing.”
“Just say I got a minor cut from some debris.
Nothing serious, but they're keeping me overnight as a precaution.
Tell her I'll call her tomorrow when I'm discharged.” Lila's eyelids droop further.
“And whatever you do, don't mention the stitches or the blood loss.
She'll be on the next flight if she thinks it's serious.”
“That seems dishonest,” I say, shifting uncomfortably.
Lila gives me a sleepy smile. “It's called filtering information. Sisters require careful handling.”
Max whines softly, sensing our imminent departure. He presses his nose against Lila's hand one more time, as if making his own goodbye.
“Take care of him,” Lila murmurs, her words beginning to slur with exhaustion. “He's a good boy.”
“I will,” I promise, gently tugging on Max's collar. “Come on, buddy. We'll come back tomorrow.”
Max reluctantly follows me toward the door, looking back over his shoulder at Lila with such obvious concern that it makes my chest ache. I understand exactly how he feels.