Stop, stop, stop.
Max lets out a soft snore from the backseat, and I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. Here I am, one arm in a sling, smelling like hospital antiseptic, and I'm mentally undressing the man driving my truck. My colleague. The one who literally signed discharge papers for me an hour ago.
But the problem with telling yourself not to think about something is that you immediately think about it harder. And now the image won't leave—those long fingers I've watched take notes and adjust equipment, wrapped around my wrists. That mouth, the one that talks about millibars and atmospheric models, against my collarbone.
The same analytical mind that can predict a tornado's path would map my body like a research project, and I would let him.
Oh, you are in so much trouble.
“Your sister said I need to tell you to call your mom.”
Jonah's voice cuts through my increasingly inappropriate daydream, yanking me back to reality with the subtlety of a bucket of ice water.
“What?” I blink, my face suddenly burning hot as I realize I've been staring at him for who knows how long, lost in a fantasy that definitely violates every professional boundary we've established.
“I charged your phone if you want to call your mom.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out my battered phone, and hands it over to me. Yeah, that’s not going to happen today , tomorrow, or even this week. Not until these stitches are out andI am healed up. Getting the third degree mom talk is not on my priority list right now.
“Mom and I have a complicated relationship.”
“Complicated how?”
I glance at his profile, wondering how much I want to share. The painkillers are making me dangerously talkative, lowering my usual defenses.
“She wants a daughter who becomes a teacher or a nurse or something sensible. Instead, she got me.” I gesture vaguely with my good hand. “The tornado-chasing adrenaline junkie who followed Dad into the most dangerous profession she could imagine.”
“And she blames you for that choice?”
“She blames me for not stopping after what happened to Dad.” The words come out before I can filter them. “In her mind, I should have learned from his death. Changed careers. Settled down with a husband and kids.”
Jonah's quiet for a moment, processing this. Max rests his chin on the console between us, as if he's following the conversation.
“Do you ever think about it?” Jonah asks finally. “Doing something else?”
“No,” I answer immediately, then pause. “Maybe. Sometimes.”
But the truth is, I’ve never known anything else. Chasing storms is in my blood as much as it was in Dad’s. Every time I think about quitting, I remember the way he’d light up when we spotted that first wall cloud, or how he’d squeeze my shoulder right before a funnel touched down. Those memories hurt, but they’re all I have left.
“It’s not just about the thrill,” I continue, trying to put it into words. “It’s about knowing that what we do matters. That thedata we collect might save someone else’s father from being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Jonah nods, focused on the road ahead. “I understand that more now than I did before.”
We ride in a quiet that feels easy, the painkillers making me drowsy. Max’s warm breath brushes my hand as he rests his chin on the center console, content just being close. The radio hums softly in the background, some country station Jonah hasn’t bothered to change.
“So,” I add, fighting to keep my eyes open, “tell me about this system we’re chasing. What makes you think it’s worth dragging my injured self across state lines?”
Jonah’s face lights up with the excitement he always gets when talking about storms. “The Gulf is pushing warm air to feed the southern edge of storms. There’s good visibility in the target area, which, considering your current condition, seemed like a best case scenario.”
“My current condition,” I repeat dryly. “You mean the fact that I'm high as a weather balloon and have one functioning arm?”
“Precisely that, yes.” His lips quirk in a small smile. “Though I'd have phrased it more delicately.”
“Delicate isn't really my style, Professor. You should know that by now.”
The truck hits a pothole, sending a jolt of pain through my shoulder despite Jonah's attempt to swerve around it. I can't quite suppress the hiss that escapes through my clenched teeth.
“Sorry,” he adds quickly, glancing at me with clear concern. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I reply, though the pain makes everything swim for a moment. “Maybe avoid the craters in the road if you can.”
