13. Lila #3
But the truth is, I’ve never known anything else.
Chasing storms is in my blood as much as it was in Dad’s.
Every time I think about quitting, I remember the way he’d light up when we spotted that first wall cloud, or how he’d squeeze my shoulder right before a funnel touched down.
Those memories hurt, but they’re all I have left.
“It’s not just about the thrill,” I continue, trying to put it into words. “It’s about knowing that what we do matters. That the data we collect might save someone else’s father from being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Jonah nods, focused on the road ahead. “I understand that more now than I did before.”
We ride in a quiet that feels easy, the painkillers making me drowsy. Max’s warm breath brushes my hand as he rests his chin on the center console, content just being close. The radio hums softly in the background, some country station Jonah hasn’t bothered to change.
“So,” I add, fighting to keep my eyes open, “tell me about this system we’re chasing. What makes you think it’s worth dragging my injured self across state lines?”
Jonah’s face lights up with the excitement he always gets when talking about storms. “The Gulf is pushing warm air to feed the southern edge of storms. There’s good visibility in the target area, which, considering your current condition, seemed like a best case scenario.”
“My current condition,” I repeat dryly. “You mean the fact that I'm high as a weather balloon and have one functioning arm?”
“Precisely that, yes.” His lips quirk in a small smile. “Though I'd have phrased it more delicately.”
“Delicate isn't really my style, Professor. You should know that by now.”
The truck hits a pothole, sending a jolt of pain through my shoulder despite Jonah's attempt to swerve around it. I can't quite suppress the hiss that escapes through my clenched teeth.
“Sorry,” he adds quickly, glancing at me with clear concern. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I reply, though the pain makes everything swim for a moment. “Maybe avoid the craters in the road if you can.”
“Of course.” His attention flicks between me and the road, like he’s worried I might pass out again.
“Road, Professor. I’m not going to collapse on you.”
“You did yesterday.”
“Yesterday I was actively bleeding. Today I’m just damaged.” I adjust the sling, trying to find a position that doesn’t pull at my stitches. “Besides, you’ve got enough to handle with driving. You don’t need to babysit me too.”
“I can multitask,” he replies, keeping his focus forward now. “I’ve already programmed the GPS with three potential intercept points. We can reassess when we’re closer to the system.”
I study his profile. “You really did your homework while I was stuck in the hospital last night, huh?”
“I had nothing else to do.” He keeps it casual, but there’s something in it that suggests he spent more time planning than sleeping.
“You could have slept,” I point out.
“I tried. It didn't take.”
Max nudges my elbow with his wet nose, his eyes conveying what seems like concern and affection. I reach over to scratch behind his ears, grateful for the distraction from the pain.
“You're a good boy,” I murmur to him. “Taking care of both of us now, aren't you?”
“He slept on my shoes last night. I think he was afraid I might leave him too.”
The simple observation hits me harder than it should. Max has lost everything—his home, his family, his entire world torn apart in minutes. Yet here he is, still capable of trust, of forming new attachments. There's something humbling about that kind of resilience.
My phone pings with an alert dragging me from my thoughts.
“The cap broke. Dewpoints are rising fast.”
He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “Where?”
“About thirty miles west of our target. We need to adjust course.” I tap the screen, zooming in on the developing supercell. “Take the next exit and head north on 217.”
Jonah nods, seamlessly changing lanes to position us for the exit. The truck responds to his touch like they’ve developed some kind of understanding overnight.
It’s strange watching someone else drive my baby. Stranger that I trust him with it completely. But I have to admit, I like the view of him behind the wheel because it gives me full access to ogle him to my heart’s content. And he can’t do a thing about it.
The sleeves of his Henley are pushed up , exposing strong forearms that flex every time he turns the wheel. My brain immediately, unhelpfully, circles right back to the whole Jonah-might-secretly-be-a-dom thought spiral from five minutes ago.
I notice the way his hands move and suddenly my imagination tries to keep going. Those forearms braced beside my head. That low voice turning firm. The quiet composure slipping into something sharper?—
Absolutely not. I shut the thought down so fast it practically gives me whiplash.
Focus, Lila. Actual job. Storms. Not this infuriating man.
Not whatever sexually repressed professor fantasy your brain is currently trying to write.
I force my attention back to the radar tablet in my lap, pulling up the latest velocity scans while heat lingers stubbornly under my skin.
Beside me, Jonah glances over briefly. “Something wrong?”
“Nope,” I answer way too quickly.
His eyes narrow.
I refuse to elaborate.
For the next fifteen minutes, I keep my eyes glued to the radar, calling out directions as the storm intensifies. Jonah follows my instructions without hesitation, asking clarifying questions that surprise me with their insight. He's been paying attention to more than just his algorithms.
“Left at this intersection,” I say, pointing ahead. “There's a dirt access road that should give us a clear view of the approach.”
Jonah pulls onto the dirt road, bringing the truck to a stop on higher ground that gives us a clear vantage point. The storm system looms on the horizon, clouds stacking into massive towers against the sky. Even from here, I can see the rotation beginning to form.
“This is exactly what we need,” I say, reaching for the door handle with my good arm.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Jonah cuts in, his hand shooting out to stop me.
“Getting out to set up?”
“No.” The firmness in his tone catches me off guard. “You’re staying in the truck. I’ll handle the equipment.”
I stare at him, not quite believing it. “I can help.”
“You’re staying put until everything’s set up and I know it’s safe for you to be outside.”
“Excuse me?” I blink at him, sure I misheard. “You’re telling me to stay put? In my own truck?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” His tone shifts—calm, firm, impossible to argue with. “You’re on painkillers that literally warn against operating heavy machinery.”
“I'm not planning to operate machinery. I'm planning to stand next to it with a camera.”
“Which requires balance, coordination, and the ability to react quickly if conditions change.” He's already gathering equipment from the back seat. “All things that are currently compromised by your injury. Passenger princess, remember?”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again when a wave of dizziness hits me just from turning my head too quickly. Damn it. He's right, and we both know it.
“Fine,” I mutter, slumping back against the seat. “But I want the camera settings exactly how I like them. And make sure the?—”
“—tripod is secured with additional weights because of the high winds. I know.” He's already halfway out the door, arms full of equipment.
The door closes before I can respond, leaving me alone with Max, who gives me a sympathetic whine from the back seat.
“Don't you start,” I tell him. “He’s bad enough.”
Through the windshield, I watch Jonah set up the equipment with surprising competence.
He checks the tripod stability first, pressing each leg firmly into the dirt the same way I always do before adjusting the camera settings.
He positions everything at the exact angle I would have chosen for tracking the approaching storm, then pauses to double-check the horizon line before moving on to his own gear.
More unsettling is the realization that he learned a lot of it from me.
He’s been paying attention—really paying attention.
Not just to storm structure and equipment placement, but to my habits, my routines, the little things I do without thinking.
And judging by the way he glances toward the truck before pretending not to, maybe in more ways than one.
Max whines softly beside me, his paws scratching at the window as he watches Jonah work.
“I know, buddy,” I mutter. “Being sidelined sucks.”
The painkillers are making my thoughts fuzzy around the edges, but the electricity of the chase hums through my veins. The storm on the horizon is a monster. Even from here, I can see the distinctive greenish tint that signals prime tornado conditions.
Jonah glances back at the truck, his expression unreadable from this distance. He's been out there for nearly ten minutes, and the equipment appears ready. What's he waiting for?
As if hearing my thoughts, he starts walking back toward the truck, his stride purposeful despite the strengthening wind that ruffles his hair and tugs at his clothes. He looks different somehow. Like he belongs out here.
The passenger door opens, and cool air rushes in, carrying the electric scent of the approaching storm.
“Everything's set up,” Jonah says, extending his hand toward me.
“I’m allowed to come out now?”
Jonah sighs. “If you let me help you. I don’t want to know the creative ways your sister would kill me if you hurt yourself again.”
“I don't need—” I start to protest, but another wave of pain shoots through my shoulder. “Fine.”
I place my good hand in his, surprised by the warmth of his palm against mine. His grip is firm but gentle as he helps me ease out of the truck, steadying me when my feet touch the ground. Max slips from the backseat and follows me out of the truck.