She shakes her head, smiling to herself before looking back at the road. And for one dangerous second, watching her smile feels strangely domestic. Like this—her driving, me beside her, the dog snoring in the backseat—is something we’ve been doing together a lot longer than we actually have.
The thought hits me hard enough to steal my breath for a second.
Because I could get used to this far too easily.
LILA
I've knowna lot of silences in my life. The eerie quiet before a supercell forms. The hollow stillness after destruction. The heavy pause when someone realizes I chase monsters for a living on a first date. But this contemplative, gentle silence filling my truck cab is entirely new territory.
Jonah hasn't spoken in forty-three minutes. Not since we left the motel in Oakridge, our hasty breakfast of vending machine granola bars and bitter coffee sitting uneasily in my stomach. He's been staring out the passenger window, one hand absentlytaking notes on a notepad, the other occasionally reaching back to check on Max.
I catch him doing it again now—those long fingers stretching behind the seat to scratch behind the golden retriever's ears. Max responds with a sleepy thump of his tail against the upholstery.
“You know,” I say, breaking the quiet, “for someone who's never had a pet, you're weirdly good with him.”
“I think he's just grateful someone got him out of there,” Jonah remarks.
“Or maybe…it’s the beef jerky you keep slipping him when you think I’m not watching.”
Jonah shrugs. “Maybe. He appears to be very food motivated.”
I shake my head. “You can say that about most men.”
The Louisiana state line appears in the distance, and I check the radar on my phone mounted to the dashboard. The storm system we're tracking has intensified overnight. Bands of severe weather are firing off like dominoes falling across the southeastern parishes.
I glance over at Jonah again. What's going on in that overactive brain of his? Yesterday changed something. Seeing that house destroyed, rescuing Max—it's like the theoretical became viscerally real for him.
I can almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, grinding through whatever thought’s been building all morning.
“Lila?” he says finally, and something about the way he says my name makes me glance over. His voice has that careful, measured quality it gets when he’s about to say something he’s rehearsed internally approximately six thousand times.
“Hm?”
“Can I ask you something?”
My eyes narrow . I recognize that tone. It’s the same one he used right before he announced he was taking in a traumatized tornado dog with zero plan or experience.
“If this is about rescuing another abandoned animal,” I say immediately, keeping my eyes on the road while pointing a thumb toward the backseat, “you did not ask last time, and Max absolutely does not need a friend. My truck isn’t big enough for one dog and all your instruments, let alone a whole menagerie.”
Jonah’s mouth opens, then closes. “I wasn’t?—”
“Because I can already see it,” I continue, warming to my topic. “You see a stray cat tomorrow and suddenly I’m running a mobile animal shelter out of the back of Dad’s truck. You’d name them after atmospheric phenomena. We’d have a kitten named Cumulonimbus.”
“That’s not?—”
“Or a rabbit. God help me if you find a rabbit. You’d put it in a little harness and try to train it to run a Doppler radar.”
Jonah’s brow furrows. “Rabbits can’t operate Doppler radar.”
“I’m aware of that, Professor, but you’d try.”
“I wouldn’t try to train a rabbit.”
“Unless you’re talking about a rabbit vibrator, and I can tell you from experience those do not need to be trained. They arrive fully ready to please.”
The words leave my mouth before my brain can catch up.
Jonah’s entire face goes slack. His notebook slips from his fingers, landing with a soft thud on the floor mat. He stares at me like I’ve just spoken in tongues.
