“You were.” I move around to the side, close enough now that I can see the thin hospital bracelet loose on her wrist. She watches me approach with wary eyes, like she’s bracing for something. Another accusation, maybe. Or a goodbye. Instead, I sit in the chair beside her bed, close enough to touch but not reaching for her. “I’m not leaving, Lila.”
She blinks rapidly, as if trying to process my words through a fog. Her lips part but no sound comes out.
“Even if you tell me to go again,” I continue, “I’ll just come back. I’ve already tried leaving, and it didn’t take.”
Something shifts in her expression—a flicker of vulnerability behind the wall she’s built. Her good hand clutches at the hospital sheet, knuckles white.
“I don’t deserve that,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Not after what I said.”
“Maybe not,” I agree. “But I’m here anyway.”
A tear slips down her cheek, tracking along the angry scratch on her forehead. I resist the urge to wipe it away, knowing she needs space right now.
“The truck wasn’t your fault,” she says finally, the words coming out in a rush. “I know that. I’ve known it since the second the words left my mouth. I saw it, and all I could think was that Dad is really gone now. That there’s nothing left.”
My chest tightens painfully. “Lila?—”
“No, let me finish.” She struggles to sit up straighter, wincing at the movement. “When the tornado hit, and you had your arms around me in that bathtub, I felt safe. For the first time since Dad died. And that terrified me more than the storm.”
“Why?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I know the answer.
“Because people leave, Jonah. They always leave.” Her eyes meet mine. “Because you’ll leave too, eventually. And it’s easier to push you away now than to lose you later.”
I should say something comforting, but the raw honesty in her voice leaves me speechless. She’s laid herself bare in a way I never expected, and suddenly my own fears seem insignificant in comparison.
“I heard you,” she says quietly, barely above a whisper. “In the bathtub. When the tornado was right over us.”
My heart stutters. The confession I’d made into the roar, the words I thought had been swallowed by the storm—she heard them. And she hasn’t mentioned it until now.
“You heard me?”
She nods slowly, another tear escaping down her cheek. “I think I’ve always known. Since that first day on the road, when you argued with me about convective parameters.” A tiny smile flickers across her face. “You were so determined to be right, and I was so determined to make you admit I was right, and somewhere in between all that stubbornness...”
“We found something else,” I finish for her.
“Something terrifying,” she admits. “Because I don’t do this, Jonah. I don’t let people in. I chase storms and keep moving and don’t look back. That’s how I survive.”
I reach for her hand then, unable to resist any longer. Her fingers are cold as they curl around mine, but there’s strength in her grip.
“Maybe survival isn’t enough anymore,” I say, looking directly into her eyes. “Maybe there’s more to living than just not dying. I want you, Lila. Flaws and all. I’m just asking you not to push me away because you’re scared of what might happen.”
Her fingers curl tentatively around mine. “I want this too.” Her eyes meet mine, vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen before. “God help me, I do. Even though you fold your socks and alphabetize your cereal boxes?—”
“I don’t alphabetize my cereal boxes,” I protest.
“You absolutely would if you had more than one kind.” She squeezes my hand. “Your weird professor habits are going to drive me crazy. The way you overthink everything.”
“I don’t?—”
“You literally did it yesterday,” she cuts me off. Her lips curve into the ghost of a smile. “But maybe...maybe that’s what I need. Someone who makes me stop and think before I leap headfirst into a supercell.”
“And maybe I need someone who pushes me to take risks,” I admit. “Someone who doesn’t let me hide behind computer screens and data.
“Someone who makes you see the world beyond algorithms and spreadsheets,” Lila adds.
I nod, feeling something in my chest expand. “We balance each other out.”
“Like a perfectly calibrated weather system,” she says, and I can’t help but smile at the meteorological metaphor.
