I stare at her for a full second, convinced I must have misheard.
“You cannot seriously expect me to continue the research expedition while you’re injured.”
“Why not?” she asks, like this is the most reasonable conversation in the world. “Storm season doesn’t stop because I got stabbed by airborne debris.”
She shifts carefully against the pillows, trying to disguise another flicker of pain.
I notice anyway. I notice everything now. Every tight breath. Every guarded movement. Every tiny sign that she’s hurting. The image of her collapsing flashes through my head again so suddenly it almost knocks the air out of me.
“Besides,” she continues, stubborn as ever, “I can direct you from the passenger seat just fine.”
“That is completely irresponsible.”
Lila’s eyebrows lift . “Do you or do you not need the data?”
“Screw the data, Lila.”
The words leave me before I can temper them.
Her expression stills. And suddenly I can hear how emotional I sound. Raw. Frayed open in ways I’m not used to letting anyone see.
“You could have died today.”
The room falls silent except for the steady beep of the monitor beside her bed. I can feel her blood on my hands. Still hear myself begging her to stay awake while I drove. Still remember the horrible split second when she stopped responding and something inside me nearly came apart completely. It terrifies me how much that fear lives in my chest.
Lila’s expression softens slowly as she looks at me.
“You’re right,” she says quietly. “I could’ve died.” Her fingers brush lightly against mine where my hand rests beside the bed. “But I didn’t.”
Because of you. She doesn’t say it out loud, but I hear it anyway. Emotion lodges painfully in my throat.
“This is insane,” I murmur, dragging a hand through my hair. “You need rest. Actual recovery. Not more storms.”
“I’ll rest,” she says gently. “In the passenger seat while you drive.”
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. The absurd part is that I know she means it. Lila would crawl into a storm half-conscious if she thought the work mattered enough.
And maybe that’s part of why I?—
My thoughts stop abruptly before I can finish that sentence.
She reaches out then, carefully sliding her hand over mine. The contact is small. Soft.
“I’m not asking you to throw me back into the field tomorrow,” she says more quietly now. “I’m asking you to help me finish what we started.”
I look down at our hands. At the stubborn woman lying in this hospital bed who somehow cares more about the researchthan the stitches in her arm. And beneath all the fear clawing through me is something else now.
Because the truth is, if Lila asked me to follow her into another storm tomorrow, I already know I would.
I shake my head, incredulous. “Absolutely not. We can wait until you're healed.”
“Storm season doesn’t last forever, Jonah. You have a few weeks at most to get this data.”
I'm about to argue further when I hear footsteps approaching down the hallway. Lila's eyes widen.
“That's the nurse coming back,” she hisses, suddenly urgent. “Quick, hide Max in the bathroom.”
“What? I can't just?—”
