Above us, the funnel drops.
It happens in slow motion and all at once—the way it always does. One second there’s a ragged twist of condensation reaching down from the base of the cloud, and the next it touches the earth and the whole thing fills with dirt. The roarhits us ten seconds later, that low freight-train sound I’ve heard a hundred times and never gotten used to.
Tornado on the ground. She’s wide and slow and chewing her way across the open field to the west, pulling up dust and debris in her path.
Jonah steps closer, his body curving around mine without seeming to think about it. His chest brushes my shoulder blade, and the warmth of him wraps around me from behind like a second layer of air. His chin tilts just above my temple, and I can feel his breath stirring my hair.
I don’t move. My fingers stay on the controller. But every nerve ending I have is now apparently under new management.
“Tell me something,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Is this different than in your lab?”
I don’t look up at him. I keep watching the tornado climb across the screen, because if I look at his face right now I’m not going to be able to finish the question.
He’s quiet for a long moment. The wind screams across the ridge and tugs at the hem of his shirt, and I feel his chest expand against my back when he breathes.
“Yes,” he says.
Just the one word. Quiet. Like he’s admitting to something.
I turn my head enough to see his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyes are fixed on the tornado and not on me.
“How?”
Jonah swallows. I watch his throat work. “In the lab, it’s numbers. Colors on a screen. Variables with names.” His voice drops lower, almost reverent. “Out here, you can feel it in your teeth.”
That answer—so quiet, so honest. I don’t have words for the way his voice sounds right now. The way the storm light turns his skin to gold and casts his shadow against mine.
The moment stretches between us like taffy. My body is hyperaware of his—the solid heat of his chest against my back, his hand steady at my waist, the way we’ve somehow curved into each other like two pieces meant to fit. The drone feed flickers in my hands, the tornado still churning across the field, but suddenly it feels distant. Secondary to the simple fact of Jonah pressed against me.
I’m about to say something—I’m not sure what—when a gust of wind nearly knocks the controller from my hands.
Jonah jerks back immediately, his hand leaving my back with such abruptness that the cold rushes in to replace it. My body rebels against the sudden absence, goosebumps rising on my arms despite the humid air.
“I should check the sensors,” he says, his voice pitched higher than normal. “The pressure drop is accelerating.”
Before I can respond, he’s striding away, all business again, headed toward the array of instruments we’ve set up several yards from the truck. I watch him go, the space between us suddenly feeling vast despite the physical distance.
The loss hits me harder than it should. Like someone turned off a heater I hadn’t realized was running. My fingers tighten around the drone controller as I fight the absurd impulse to call him back. What would I even say? “Hey, Jonah, come stand behind me because I like the way your body feels against my back.” Don’t be stupid, Lila.
“Wind speed sixty-eight miles per hour!” he calls, energy running through him. “Barometric pressure dropping rapidly—29.32 inches and falling!”
I keep my focus on the drone feed, guiding Stormy in a careful arc along the edge of the tornado.
“Temperature differential is fifteen degrees between inflow and outflow!” Jonah shouts, practically vibrating with scientificjoy. “The vertical rotation is intensifying exactly as the model predicted!”
I smile despite myself. His enthusiasm is contagious, any reserve gone in the face of raw nature. This is what I wanted him to see—not numbers on a screen, but the living, breathing reality of these storms.
Then I see it.
My heart drops like a stone.
“Jonah,” I call sharply, zooming the drone's camera. “There's a structure in the path.”
Through the feed, I can make out a small farmhouse about a mile from the tornado's current position. It sits alone in a clearing, surrounded by trees that are already beginning to bend in the violent wind.
“What?” He looks up from his instruments, momentarily confused by my shift in tone.
I point to the screen. “House. Directly in the path.:
