“Of course.” His attention flicks between me and the road, like he’s worried I might pass out again.
“Road, Professor. I’m not going to collapse on you.”
“You did yesterday.”
“Yesterday I was actively bleeding. Today I’m just damaged.” I adjust the sling, trying to find a position that doesn’t pull at my stitches. “Besides, you’ve got enough to handle with driving. You don’t need to babysit me too.”
“I can multitask,” he replies, keeping his focus forward now. “I’ve already programmed the GPS with three potential intercept points. We can reassess when we’re closer to the system.”
I study his profile. “You really did your homework while I was stuck in the hospital last night, huh?”
“I had nothing else to do.” He keeps it casual, but there’s something in it that suggests he spent more time planning than sleeping.
“You could have slept,” I point out.
“I tried. It didn't take.”
Max nudges my elbow with his wet nose, his eyes conveying what seems like concern and affection. I reach over to scratch behind his ears, grateful for the distraction from the pain.
“You're a good boy,” I murmur to him. “Taking care of both of us now, aren't you?”
“He slept on my shoes last night. I think he was afraid I might leave him too.”
The simple observation hits me harder than it should. Max has lost everything—his home, his family, his entire world torn apart in minutes. Yet here he is, still capable of trust, of forming new attachments. There's something humbling about that kind of resilience.
My phone pings with an alert dragging me from my thoughts.
“The cap broke. Dewpoints are rising fast.”
He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “Where?”
“About thirty miles west of our target. We need to adjust course.” I tap the screen, zooming in on the developing supercell. “Take the next exit and head north on 217.”
Jonah nods, seamlessly changing lanes to position us for the exit. The truck responds to his touch like they’ve developed some kind of understanding overnight.
It’s strange watching someone else drive my baby. Stranger that I trust him with it completely. But I have to admit, I like the view of him behind the wheel because it gives me full access to ogle him to my heart’s content. And he can’t do a thing about it.
The sleeves of his Henley are pushed up , exposing strong forearms that flex every time he turns the wheel. My brain immediately, unhelpfully, circles right back to the whole Jonah-might-secretly-be-a-dom thought spiral from five minutes ago.
I notice the way his hands move and suddenly my imagination tries to keep going. Those forearms braced beside my head. That low voice turning firm. The quiet composure slipping into something sharper?—
Absolutely not. I shut the thought down so fast it practically gives me whiplash.
Focus, Lila. Actual job. Storms. Not this infuriating man.
Not whatever sexually repressed professor fantasy your brain is currently trying to write.
I force my attention back to the radar tablet in my lap, pulling up the latest velocity scans while heat lingers stubbornly under my skin.
Beside me, Jonah glances over briefly. “Something wrong?”
“Nope,” I answer way too quickly.
His eyes narrow.
I refuse to elaborate.
For the next fifteen minutes, I keep my eyes glued to the radar, calling out directions as the storm intensifies. Jonah follows my instructions without hesitation, asking clarifyingquestions that surprise me with their insight. He's been paying attention to more than just his algorithms.
