The coffee meeting felt like it was days ago, though it had only been this morning.
We'd gone straight from the café to the station ready to start our gentle messaging about storm preparations. But the hurricane had other plans. By noon, it had jumped to Category three. By 3 PM, the forecast models had converged on a track that put us directly in the path. By 6 PM, we'd transitioned to continuous coverage with no end in sight.
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 hisintoxicating 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.
