#kat writes

All of you piled into your respective vinyl booths. You had the great (dis)pleasure of sitting directly across from Scott. Next to you sat Peter, your best friend on the team and the other operator assigned to Tin Man, and across the table from him sat Javi.

The aging waitress walked over and took your orders with all the enthusiasm of a mortician. Peter and Scott talked numbers while you waited for the food but you were too hangry to jump in.

When your sandwich and fries finally came, it was all you could do not to inhale the whole thing at once. You tried your damnedest, though, and you were too hungry to care about it looking presentable.

"Need a napkin there, champ?" Scott said, smirking at you.

You glared at him with your mouth full and swallowed before retorting, "Need an attitude adjustment there, bro?"

Since you found out that Scott had been in a fraternity, you clowned on him relentlessly for it. Nevermind that it was a science fraternity and comprised of the stuffiest, blandest young scientists the world had ever seen: you still teased Scott for it like he'd been crowned Beer Pong King three years in a row.

He made a sour face at you and stole the napkin holder from the center of the table before slapping it down in front of you like he was dividing up territory. "Maybe if you weren't eating with all the fine motor skills of a toddler and putting off my appetite, I wouldn't have an attitude, newbie."

Ugh. You'd already been on this team three months, and you weren’t even the newest hire. Scott just loved to save his barbs for you, and god, did it piss you off, because he was never short on them. It felt like he was always watching you, waiting for you to fuck up or do something stupid that he could harp on endlessly.

Peter and Javi made noises of protest, but you barely listened. Instead you held Scott's gaze while you plucked a napkin off the top of the holder and wrinkled your nose at him while you dabbed your mouth.

"Oooo, sorry, am I not performing femininity enough for you?" you snapped, cutting Peter and Javi off. "Eating too messily for the tiny little brain in your underwear to comprehend so you have to talk to me like I'm a child?" You knew he didn't mean it in a misogynistic way, but it was a card you had lots of fun playing as the only woman on the team. Besides, it kind of was a sore point for you—the real newbie, the operator on Wizard who started two weeks ago, got off clean for every mistake (and he’s made three already!) while you got berated and underestimated from day one.

The force with which Scott rolled his eyes probably could've formed a tornado right in the middle of this diner. "Jesus Christ, you know I didn't mean it like—" "Whatever, Miller, hop off my dick and stop watching me eat," you interrupted sourly.

"Alright, guys, retract the claws," Javi said placatingly. "Everyone just eat your food, you're all hangry."

Scott huffed and you could feel the heat of his glare on you, probably incensed at not getting the last word, but you trained your eyes on your plate and dug back into your meal.

He never quite apologized, but he did start picking up more napkins for you when it was his turn to go on food runs, and you did sort of appreciate it. You did need them, after all.

II.

It was two in the morning and you were banging relentlessly on the door of Javi and Scott’s shared motel room with your laptop tucked in the crook of your elbow. You were sleep-deprived, anxious, PMSing, and there was a fucking storm cell developing just a few dozen miles away.

Javi opened it, rubbing his eyes and blinking blearily at you. “What the hell?” he whispered, raspy with sleep. “Quiet down, Scott will throw a tantrum.” He slipped outside and closed the door behind him.

“There’s a cell developing southwest of here. Thirty-ish miles,” you said quietly. “Come on, we have to get everyone moving.”

Javi’s eyes met yours, bright and alert now. “Is there a warning out yet?”

You shook your head. “They’re still on a watch, but the storm is starting to become a mesocyclone.”

“You got the numbers?” he asked, nodded to your laptop.

“Yeah.”

“Get in here, show me.” Javi stepped back into the motel room and held the door open for you.

You walked in with your laptop in tow. Scott was still in bed, and the door Javi slammed shut behind you jolted him awake. He groaned, something low and animal that you didn’t have the bandwidth to handle right now, and rolled over onto his back. He hauled himself up on his elbows and squinted at you both.

“Th’ fuck’s goin’ on?” he asked irritably.

“Tornado watch in Jackson County. There’s a cell developing,” you said, deliberately refusing to look too long at Scott’s mussed, curly hair and the way his white t-shirt hugged his biceps.

Since they were the bosses, their room was the biggest and they had a small dining table with three chairs in addition to the two beds. You plopped into one of the seats, setting your laptop on the table and scrolling furiously across the screen. Both of them moved to join you, with Javi on one side of you and Scott on the other. They leaned in to take a look.

An angry blob of yellow and orange was growing in size. The sidebar indicated 98 mph northeasterly winds and a mix of rain and hail.

Scott and Javi grabbed their own devices. “It’s just a mesocyclone right now. Those winds might still die down,” Scott said.

“Sure, but look at this,” you said, switching to a different view mode on your radar app. “Look at the echo top on it. It’s only at 6,500 feet right now, but it’s rising. Those winds are gonna speed up the higher up it gets for how little resistance they’ll find in the stratosphere.”

“All I’m looking at right now is a particularly bad hailstorm. There isn’t even a tornado vortex signature,” Scott insisted.

“So, what, we should just plant our asses here and hope it doesn’t develop one?” you asked impatiently.

“No, obviously we’ll move when—” Javi began.

“Well what the hell else can we do but keep an eye on it?” Scott interrupted. “You wanna wake up our whole damn team for a drizzle?”

“You know damn well this isn’t a drizzle, Scott.”

“And you know damn well that if we hauled ass to every spot with a tornado watch and some hail, we’d just be wasting everyone’s time.”

"It’s so close and you want to wait till, what, it comes knocking on our door?” you challenged.

“Will you guys just chill out please? Your bickering is pissing me off,” Javi snapped. He turned to you. “Is Pete awake?”

“I woke him up before I came here but he might’ve gone back to sleep,” you said.

Javi sighed heavily. “Look, you guys stay here and keep an eye on that cell. I’ll bring my radio. The minute it develops a TVS, you radio me. I’m gonna wake up Peter and Victor, let them know to be on standby to get moving. And maybe get coffee.”

You nodded. He slipped into the bathroom with a change of clothes then reemerged, put on his shoes and walked out the door. Scott sighed too, got up from the dining table, and rooted around in the front pocket of his backpack on the floor for his gum. He popped a piece into his mouth and dropped back down into the chair next to you.

“Shouldn’t you go get changed too?” he asked.

You sighed and looked at him. “What?”

“Oh, were you planning on driving into hundred-mile-per-hour winds in your jammies?” he said with a smirk.

You glared. “Didn’t you just call it a drizzle?”

“Yeah, and at least I’m consistent. What kind of nutjob runs around screaming about an impending tornado and then doesn’t bother to get ready for it?”

“What the fuck does this look like?” you asked, lifting your laptop up and shaking it for emphasis.

“It looks like you’re in my motel room in a pair of tiny sleep shorts and freaking out about a storm that just barely counts as an EF1.”

You tilted your head back all the way, hanging your neck at him. Partly because you were sick of his shit and partly to hide the heat in your cheeks at his comment. “Can I just fucking do my job, please?”

He snickered. “Be my guest,” he said, blowing a bubble with his gum and popping it just as fast with a cheeky little grin.

You stared at your screen, watching the blob shift every few seconds. The echo top was slowing its upward movement. It hovered at around 10,000 feet now. The wind speeds did climb a bit too, but they stabilized at 110 mph. Your eyes unfocused a little while you watched the colors on your screen move. You put your elbow on the table and rested your head in your palm, your energy beginning to flag. In your peripheral vision, you registered Scott’s face turned toward yours.

You looked up to meet his gaze. There was something in it you couldn’t quite place—not derision; you knew very well what that looked like on Scott. Curiosity, maybe? Amusement?

“What?” you asked.

Scott raised his eyebrows at you in lieu of a response.

“What’s your problem, Miller?” you asked tiredly. He stuck his lip out and shook his head, shooting you a weak thumbs up, the picture of (false) innocence.

“I don’t have a problem,” he said casually.

You screwed your eyes shut and inhaled slow through your bared teeth. A blaze of irritation roared to life in your chest. “Then what the fuck do you keep staring at me for?”

You opened your eyes to shoot him a glare that could kill. You wished it would. At least then you wouldn’t have to be perceived in your pajamas anymore. He grinned at you, smacking his gum. “‘Cause it pisses you off.”

You moved your glare back to your screen, refusing to dignify his statement with a response and waste any more energy on an argument, and saw the yellow-and-orange blob change to just yellow. The wind speed was clocking in at 96 mph now and the echo top measurement was falling rapidly. You were watching the storm you’d been so anxious about die down like someone had flipped a switch on it—and both you and Scott knew that he’d just been proven right.

You were glad not to have to rally the brigade and haul ass to Jackson County in the middle of the night, but now Scott had even more material to give you shit about. You braced yourself for whatever barb he wanted to send your way for interrupting his night like this.

But it never came. Instead he let out a great big sigh, got up, and stretched. You studiously ignored how his shirt rose up over his tummy, exposing the trail of dark hair between the defined V of his hipbones. “Alright, kid, told ya it was a false alarm. I’m goin’ back to sleep,” he said. He barely shot you another glance before walking into the bathroom.

You figured you were both too tired to keep snapping at each other at this hour. You radio’d Javi, let him know the storm passed, and left before Scott could come back out.

III.

You may have cut it a little too close to tornado season in Oklahoma. You figured a friend's late March bachelorette weekend in Vegas wouldn't interrupt your work schedule too much, and it sort of hadn't! Or rather, it wouldn't have if the two huge cells building up in the low pressure atmosphere hadn't decided to spin into existence a couple weeks early.

So now, not only did you not get to travel with your team from the NWS HQ in Maryland to the heart of tornado alley, your flight from Vegas also got redirected to a different airport and you would have to drive down to central Oklahoma from Wichita. Occupational hazard: when everyone else is hunkering down and grounding planes, you're the one that has to figure out how to get right where they don't wanna go.

When your plane started taxiing at the airport, you immediately texted Javi.

You: dude i got fucking redirected to wichita so i guess im gonna rent a car and drive down to OKC and meet with u guys there Javi: oh shit Javi: wait don't rent a car, scott might be able to come get you You: what??? Javi: he's in KS rn with family i'll text him

You stared at your phone dumbly. This, you did not expect. This, you did not plan for on any level, emotional or otherwise. Now you had two and a half hours alone in a car with Scott fucking Miller and the dregs of a hangover to look forward to. As if this trip couldn't get any worse. Just then, you got another text.

Scott: Text me your flight number.

You raised your eyes to the heavens, as if God could help you now. Scott'd barely softened towards you in the six months since you joined the team. You weren't newbie anymore, but he still sometimes hit you with kid or a condescending champ. Still teased you relentlessly for every misplaced decimal and bad call. And still, to your unending consternation, always fucking looking at you, making you feel like a bug under a microscope. At least, if he was driving, he couldn't watch your every move and dissect you with his eyes. That was your consolation. You texted him back with your flight number and started coordinating the pickup.

Later, after you bee-lined to the bathroom to do what you could to stop smelling like airplane and picked up your stuff, you walked out to the arrival floor with your bags in tow. You headed for the doors and texted Scott which one you'd be at, expecting him to roll up in his Storm Par SUV. Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Scott: Turn around

You frowned at your phone and spun around. Your eyes glossed over the sea of people, looking for—ah, there he was. That freakishly tall tree of a man. What the hell was he doing inside? He was just supposed to roll up to the curb so you could get in and get moving fast. You let out a beleaguered sigh and tipped your chin at him when you met his gaze. One side of his mouth curled up, the dimple in that cheek showing up just slightly. You (begrudgingly) found his dimpled smile charming, even in the half-measure it was now. Maybe if it showed up more, it’d make up for his sour personality, you thought.

His gaze never let up on you as you crossed the floor, so you trained your eyes on the ground. Fucking asshole, didn’t he know how awkward it was to be stared at by someone while you were walking towards them? He couldn’t just gaze politely into the middle distance?

“Hi,” you said, finally meeting his gaze when you planted your feet in front of him.

“Took you long enough,” he said by way of greeting, immediately moving to take your bags from your hands.

You folded your lips into your mouth and bit them with your teeth so you wouldn’t snap right back. He walked ahead towards the doors without even a glance back to make sure you were following. When you finally got outside, he led you straight to a silver Ford F150 that was idling with its warning lights on.

“What the fuck, you can’t park here, Scott—” you began.

“Well, I did, and look at that! No ticket!” he replied cheekily as he finished dumping your bags in the backseat of the cab and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Hurry up, I don’t want to try my luck.”

You huffed at him and climbed into the passenger seat, buckling yourself in. “I don’t know why you even came inside in the first place,” you mumbled under your breath.

He ignored you, maneuvering the vehicle smoothly out of its spot and following the line on the dashboard screen’s GPS.

“Is this your car?” you asked. It didn’t surprise you that Scott had an F150, but it did surprise you a little that he kept it in such pristine condition.

“Certainly not Storm Par’s,” he said.

You looked at him and sighed. It was gonna be a long road trip.

“Well, it’s nice. Really clean,” you said.

He looked at you with his eyebrows raised. “Thanks.”

You hummed. “Thanks for coming to get me. I, uh…didn’t know you had family out here.”

“Yeah, my stepbrother and his family. It was my niece’s birthday this past weekend.”

“You have a niece?” you blurted.

He made a face at you. “Yeah, I have a niece. Why are you so surprised?”

“You just didn’t seem like the type.”

“The type to have a niece?” he asked incredulously, a dimple peeking out as he struggled to stifle a laugh. You’d never heard him sound like this before, at least not in any conversation he’s had with you.

“No…the type to go out of your way to celebrate one, I guess. I…didn’t really think of you as much of a family man,” you admitted.

He sobered up a little but didn’t lose his mirth. “Yeah, well. I’m full of surprises.”

The silence settled comfortably over the both of you. His phone was connected to the car radio and it was softly playing country music that was barely more than pleasant background noise to you while the pickup glided next to fields of grain.

You let yourself look over at him and study his profile a little bit. It was always novel to you to see him out of his Storm Par uniform, and today he looked every bit the Midwestern country boy he was on paper. His dark, curly hair was free of that wretched baseball cap. He wore a red and black plaid flannel over a white t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Unfortunately, he looked really, really good like this. So much softer out of uniform, less rigid.

“You keep staring at me, your neck’ll get stuck like that,” he said with a smirk.

“Was trying to find out if I could see your little devil horns with your hat off. Oh, yeah, there they are,” you said, serving it up right back before turning your face to the window.

He laughed. "It’s nice not having to hide them.”

You snorted and looked back at him. “Why hide them at all? They already shine through in your sparkling personality,” you said.

He huffed a little chuckle through his nose and shook his head. “Yeah, well, this sparkling personality is driving you two-and-a-half hours away in his own truck for free, and you didn’t even have to ask.”

You groaned. “Are you going to hang this over my head for the rest of forever now? Are you gonna be like, ‘Hey, remember when I drove you across a state line?’ every time you need a favor?”

“Ya know, I was really thinking about it,” he said.

“Well, stop thinking about it, because you’re right, I didn’t ask. Javi voluntold you to do it. If anything, he owes you the favor. I’m just the kid who got stranded in Kansas,” you said, holding your palms up in surrender.

He snorted. “Way to throw him under the bus.”

“I don’t have a principled bone in my body when I’m under duress.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you need one,” he said, smirking like he said something smart. And then the double meaning of it settled over the both of you.

“Excuse me?” you asked, an incredulous grin spreading over your face.

Scott huffed. “Obviously I meant you need more principles, not that you—should—”

“Scott Miller, are you blushing?” you asked gleefully, your eyes drinking in the flush spreading up his neck. A thick vein pulsed on the side of it from his frustration and the urge to lick it burned through you, staggering and unbidden. You blinked your eyes a couple of times to rid yourself of the thought.

“Look, it’s an involuntary bodily reaction, alright? Relax,” he said irritably.

You chuckled and turned your head back to the window. “Mmkay.”

The first hour went by quickly. You stole control of the car’s Bluetooth and subjected Scott to your taste in music, which naturally ignited a healthy argument about what could be considered “good taste.” Your ideas on it vastly differed, but you found a sliver of common ground in classic rock and indie alt, so you mostly tried to keep the tunes to those genres. But of course you found time to slip in some songs he might not have heard and force him to try new music.

Halfway through the drive, Scott pulled into a rest stop to top up on gas and grab snacks. When you offered to chip in for gas, he waved you off like the notion was ridiculous. You decided you’d cover snacks for the both of you, then.

While he fueled up the car, you headed into the convenience store and grabbed a basket. You more or less had an idea of what he liked; you’d certainly been on enough snack runs at places like this with the team. So you tossed carrot sticks, beef jerky, those Veggie Straws chips he likes, and a fresh pack of spearmint gum in the basket for him before you hunted down your favorite gas station treats.

You looked up when the bell above the door rang and made eye contact with Scott as he came in. He pointed towards the restrooms and you nodded. You then went back to staring hard at the shelves in front of you, oscillating between two candy bars in your head, before you felt a presence standing just outside your field of vision to your right.

You looked up at the person, a middle-aged guy who reeked of cigarettes and looked like every one of them had chipped away at his soul. He was staring at you.

“Sorry, am I in your way?” you asked, moving backward to give him space.

“Not at all, honey,” he said, throwing you a stained grin that he must have thought looked dashing. “You like that candy? I can buy it for you. Where ya headed?”

You straightened your spine, the klaxons in your head already flashing. “Uh, no thanks, I’m good,” you said, offering a polite smile.

He leaned toward you, saying, “Really, sugar, let me get it, let me take you out.”

You stepped back, letting the polite smile drop and straightening your spine. “Sir, I’m not interested. Can you leave me alone?”

He snorted, which wafted his beer-tinged breath at you. “Aw, you’re just sayin’ that. Don’t play hard to get with me, baby.”

“Hey, what, you didn’t hear her? She said she’s not interested, old man,” said Scott’s voice from behind you. You turned back to find him walking up the aisle toward you.

The man sized Scott up, all 6’4” of him, and seemed to lose some of his nerve. “Well who are you, her boyfriend?”

Scott rolled his eyes and gave the man a dirty look. “There’s your problem right there, the only women you respect are the ones who have a man to back them up. Will you fuckin’ piss off?”

The dude’s face soured and he walked off, mumbling under his breath. You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.

“Thanks for stepping in there,” you said quietly, grabbing both candy bars you were considering (you deserved it, obviously) and moving towards the cashier.

“No problem,” he said.

When you got everything rung up, he tried to beat you to the card reader, but you blocked it with your body and shoved your card onto it. “Stop trying to pay for everything, Jesus Christ, I get it, you have money—”

Scott made a face at you that you didn’t even see. “I’m not showing off my money. Will you just fucking let me be nice?”

The card reader beeped and you turned toward him, victorious. A grave miscalculation because he was much closer behind you than you thought and now your boobs were pressed up against his chest and you were staring straight up into his eyes. You let out a surprised little “Oh!” and stumbled back into the card reader and display of Bic lighters, but he caught you before you could knock them all to the floor.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, turning back immediately to grab the bag of your stuff the cashier had pushed toward you and bolt out the door.

The air outside wasn’t as refreshing as you’d’ve liked. It was heavier with humidity than it had been before you got to the rest stop. Your eyes scanned the parking lot in front of the store and locked in on Scott’s F150. You immediately started for it and sped up when you heard the jingling bells of the door opening behind you.

“Hey, hang on, Road Runner, door’s locked—” Scott called behind you before whipping out his keys and unlocking the car remotely. The truck lit up obediently and you launched yourself inside.

When you were seated and had a second to get your head back on straight, you had to reckon with the fact that your racing heart and heat-filled cheeks were not the result of your encounter with the creep.

Obviously you found Scott attractive, and it was just another thing that pissed you off about him before. Because you knew he was the kind of guy to use that to his advantage, especially with women. You told yourself that recognizing that would help you keep him at arm’s length. His surliness, his arrogance, his snark were easy fodder for the wall you were building up against him in your heart.

You refused to believe that all it took to tear that wall down was spending an hour alone in his car with him where you weren’t chasing weather. Where you weren’t coworkers on the clock, distracted by heat maps and wind shear. Just two people road-tripping across the plains.

Scott climbed easily into the front seat, buckled himself in, and looked at you. “You good, kid?”

“Yeah. Thanks. Let’s um, let’s get goin’,” you said, plastering on a fake smile.

He didn’t budge. He just looked at you, took in the emotions swirling in your eyes, in the set of your mouth. “We can talk about it if you want.”

“Talk about what, the creep? Really, I’m fine. It’s happened before, plus it’s over now. He fucked off,” you insisted.

Scott frowned. “I mean…sure, whatever, we don’t have to. You just look keyed up.”

“Why do you know what I look like when I’m keyed up?” you challenged, mirroring his frown. This compassion from him was confusing, unnerving. You needed to go back to a familiar dynamic, even if it was a combative one.

“So you admit that you’re keyed up?” he retorted with a smirk.

“No! Answer the question!”

“We’ve spent half a year chasing tornadoes around together. I know what it looks like when you’re anxious out of your skull, genius,” he said with an eye-roll.

You huffed. “Well maybe I’m anxious because we literally do have tornadoes to chase and we’re sitting in this humid-ass parking lot instead of getting on the road.”

Scott shook his head and threw the car into gear. “Alright, alright, we’re goin’. Don’t say I never did anything nice.”

“You know what? I actually do wanna know—why are you being so nice to me? Picking me up inside the airport, letting me play DJ, rescuing me from creeps, trying to pay for everything…” you said, counting each item off on your fingers. “Did you get body-snatched while I was in Vegas or something?”

“What are you, keeping score?” he asked irritably.

“Just saying, it’s a real departure from two weeks ago when you called me a knucklehead for giving you Doppler readings that were outdated by an hour.”

“It was a knuckleheaded move. I stand by what I said. You fucking know how fast winds change. I had to give you guff, how else are you gonna learn?”

“Jesus Christ, Scott, you’re not some wizened veteran who’s never made a wrong choice in his life. I don’t need a teacher, alright? I have the same damn master’s degree you do. God, how are you not suffocating from the thinness of the air up on that impossibly high horse of yours?”

He snorted. “Fuck off, I’m breathing just fine. And I’m not trying to be your teacher, I’m tryin’ to fuckin’ help you. And do my goddamn job.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should switch to Wizard and help Frankie instead, because that kid’s fucked up way more than me, but does he catch any heat from you? No, of course not. Just me, right? I’m your favorite punching bag?” you asked bitterly.

Scott stayed uncharacteristically silent. You moved your gaze from your fidgeting hands and turned to look at him. His brow was furrowed, eyes clouded in thought. You watched the muscles in his jaw bunch up, working, tense. “You’re not my punching bag,” he finally said quietly.

“Feels like it sometimes. A lot of the time, actually,” you murmured. “I feel like you’re always watching me, waiting for the moment when I fuck up a whole operation so you can rip me to shreds.”

He inhaled sharply next to you. “That’s not—Fuck,” he said with a sigh. “That’s not what I’m trying to do. You’re not my punching bag,” he insisted again.

You stayed silent this time. He seemed almost…contrite. And if he was about to give you an apology, who were you to interrupt?

“Look, I’m sorry, alright?” He ran a hand through his curls. “I just hate getting shit wrong. Our work has to be so precise and a lot of people count on it.”

“Then why doesn’t Frankie get shit from you?”

He chuckled, a sharp exhale from the nose. “There’s a reason Victor’s assigned to that team. Frankie’s his problem. Trust me, I’ve given Victor enough shit to last both of them a lifetime.”

You moved your head to stare out the window. “Hmmm,” was all you said.

“Maybe I could stand to be a little nicer,” he conceded. You felt the pointed shard of ice you had in your heart for him thaw, just a little.

“Maybe I could stand to check the Doppler readings more often,” you said, throwing him a smile. A white flag.

He chuckled and met your gaze for a split second before training his eyes right back on the road.

IV.

It wasn’t a plague, per se, except for the fact that it was destroying your life. Javi and Peter were sick, the latest two members of your team who’ve succumbed to the virus that seemed to be spreading like wildfire across Storm Par.

The virus was nice enough to get people sick in shifts and not all at once, so the past few weeks had been an absurd game of musical motel rooms. Sick with sick, healthy with healthy, in every combination under the sun.

Javi was already a day into his illness and was rooming with Frankie, whose fever broke in the early hours last night and was already on the mend. When you woke up to Peter rolling over listlessly in bed, covered in sweat, you knew you were screwed. And when you figured out that Javi and Peter would need to quarantine together to ride their illnesses out, leaving you to room with Scott, a blind terror gripped you and you rushed to Peter’s side, forcing him to drink water and anti-nausea meds so you wouldn’t have to go.

You’d already taken your shift with the virus and did not miss the fever, cold sweats, and nausea, nor the sound of Bobby, your quarantine-mate, retching in the bathroom. But frankly you’d rather get it again and stay with Peter than sleep five feet away from Scott Miller.

But your care didn’t fix it, of course. Peter was sick sick. So after a day of building reports, watching radars, and hoping for a miraculous recovery you knew wouldn’t come, you had to force yourself to pack an overnight bag.

Peter was dead asleep in his bed, knocked out on all manner of medication, when you finally sighed and left your room. You turned in the direction of Javi’s room—Scott’s room, you bitterly reminded yourself—and saw a very pale-looking Javi closing the door behind him with his backpack in tow.

“Oh, good, I was just—” Javi started— “hold on—” and he leaned against the wall, pressing a fist to his mouth in an effort not to throw up.

You grimaced at him. “You take your meds?”

The nausea seemed to pass a bit and Javi straightened up. He nodded weakly at you. “Haven’t kicked in yet.”

You nodded sympathetically. He waved you over and you met him just in front of his door. “Your key. Switch with me,” he said, digging in his pockets and producing his room key.

You stared at it in his hand as he held it out to you. “Uh. I—Javi, can I just sleep…somewhere else? Can I stay with Frankie? He’s fine now, right? Or Bobby! I can stay with Bobby, right?”

Javi squinted at you. “Dude. Please,” he said tiredly, shaking the key in front of you. You took it just to appease him.

“Maybe I can sleep in one of the trucks instead? One second, let me go back and grab the keys from Peter,” you began, and Javi made an aggrieved noise at you.

“I need. To be. Horizontal,” he said laboriously. You sighed, nodded, moved out of his way so he could trudge to the room you’d just left. You watched him go and dropped your backpack onto the ground.

You stared at Scott’s door like it had personally offended you. The thought of having to share a room with Scott sent your heart falling out of your ass with anxiety. Things had been much less tense between the two of you since your Great American Road Trip a month ago, and unfortunately, with that ease of tension, you found yourself warming up to Scott at a speed you did not like to think about.

That was the heart of it, really. Your dynamic with him felt like it was constantly shifting: combative, familiar, then teasing, friendly…confusing. It wasn’t much of a problem on the day-to-day since you could stumble your way through most of your interactions, but you hadn’t spent more than a couple of hours alone together…maybe ever? And now you were going to sleep next to him. Or, well, in your bed, which would be next to his bed. All night. While he was looking like he did that one time you barged in, all soft and sleep-warm. God help you.

You’d barely even noticed that you’d started pacing back and forth in front of the door. You could feel the nervous energy radiate off of you in waves and needed to expel it somehow.

All too soon, certainly sooner than you were prepared for, the door you were pacing in front of opened and there was Scott, holding it open, leaning against it and looking infuriatingly like a loungewear model in his black shorts and fitted white shirt.

“Christ, kid, will you come inside? I can hear you wearing a hole into the concrete out here,” he said, shooting you a stern look.

You stopped dead in front of him, your mouth opening and closing with the effort of finding an excuse, an out, anything. He raised his eyebrows at you and held the door open wider.

“I—I actually think I’m gonna sleep somewhere else,” you said quietly.

He frowned. “What—somewhere else? Where? Why?”

Fuck. Why, indeed? “Uh, I just—”

“I thought we were past this already. Things have been fine, right? So, what? What’s the issue?” he asked, irritation thrumming in his tone.

You exhaled hard and looked away. “Well, shit, Miller, I’ve never shared a room with a frat boy before,” you sniffed, “you might decide to haze me in the middle of the night like one of your pledges or whatever.”

Scott turned his eyes to the heavens. “How many times do I have to tell you? It wasn’t like that—we were all a bunch o’ fuckin’ nerds! You have nothing to worry about!”

You huffed. “Look, can’t it just be enough that I don’t want to sleep in your room?”

Scott didn’t respond to that but he narrowed his eyes at you. “Where do you think you’re gonna spend the night, then?” he asked.

“Fuck, I don’t know, one of the trucks, maybe?” you said, throwing your arms out. “I’ll figure it out.”

Scott gaped at you. “Figure it out? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“It’s no big deal!” you insisted. “Don’t you want the room to yourself anyway?”

“That doesn’t fucking matter. I’m not letting you sleep in one of the trucks. You’re being ridiculous,” Scott complained. “Would you just come inside? Please?” he said through a clenched jaw.

“Like hell will I let you tell me what to do. I’m sleeping in Tin Man tonight,” you retorted.

“Fat fucking chance, kid. You're stupid if you think Peter won't rise from his sickbed like a vengeful ghost to haul your ass back inside.”

You clenched your jaw. “Give me the keys to Scarecrow, then.”

He snorted. “I don’t drive Scarecrow, Praveet does. Keys are with him.”

You screwed your eyes shut and sighed. When you heard him shuffling closer, you opened them to find him standing right in front of you with the backpack you’d abandoned on the ground.

“Look, I said I’d be nicer right? So I’ll be nice. Won’t hear a peep outta me tonight. Will you just come inside?” he said with a heavy sigh before turning back and walking into the room with your stuff.

You made a noise of protest but followed him in anyway, defeated. He plopped your backpack on the floor next to the bed farthest from the door then stretched out on his own bed to resume the book he appeared to have been reading before he came outside. You didn’t look too closely at it; it was probably some boring nonfiction book about weather.

You stood in front of your backpack, staring at it like it was going to grow legs and walk away. You wished you could do the same. But you knew Scott was right, it would be stupid to sleep in a truck during peak season in Tornado Alley with a free bed right here. And you knew that knocking on every door to try to entice someone else on the team to switch with you would be pointless—Javi was the only one on the team comfortable enough with Scott to willingly room with him. So you sighed and accepted your fate.

“Mind if I use the shower?” you asked, pulling out your pajamas and toiletries from your backpack.

“Knock yourself out,” Scott said dismissively from behind his book.

You did your best to proceed with your nightly routine like normal. You brushed your teeth, showered, put on your skincare, and got dressed up in a big, boxy T-shirt and sleep shorts before emerging from the bathroom in a cloud of steam. You plopped down onto your bed with a comb, your leave-in conditioner, and your towel and started working the product into your hair. You loved the smell of your skin- and haircare products: you found them, and the ritual of putting them on, deeply relaxing. It made you feel like an ancient princess, anointed with holy oils.

“That…smells nice,” said Scott. You looked up and met his gaze. He was still sprawled out on his bed, his book lying open, face down, on his stomach. How long had he been watching you?

You gave him a soft smile. “Thanks. It’s conditioner.”

He hummed in acknowledgment. “Do you do that every night?”

“What happened to ‘not a peep’?” you asked playfully.

He huffed then turned back to his book. “Was just trying to make conversation,” he said crossly.

You laughed. “No, I don’t put it on every night. Just when I wash my hair, really. You use any products for that curly hair of yours?”

He put the book back down and ran his fingers through his curls. “No, I don’t do anything to it besides wash it. Probably should, I guess.”

You hummed. “You lucked out. It’s nice on its own.”

He stopped, pulled his fingers out of his hair, and stared at you. “Thanks,” he said, with a look on his face that you couldn’t quite place.

Once you’d finished anointing yourself with your oils and serums, you put your toiletries away and then plopped back onto your bed to fuck around on your personal laptop for a bit. You settled down onto your stomach with the laptop in front of you, your feet towards the sky, ankles crossed behind you. After twenty minutes, you started to feel a little stiff, so you moved to lie down on your side, curled around your laptop. While you changed position, you glanced up at Scott and found that he’d been sitting exactly the way he had been this whole time. His book abandoned on his stomach. His face turned towards you.

You chuckled when you met his gaze. “You’re staring, Miller.”

He blinked. “Sorry,” he said, and picked his book up again.

“You do that a lot,” you said.

“What?” he asked without looking at you.

“Stare at me.”

“Mmm, do I?” he asked, sounding skeptical.

You took a deep breath, shut your laptop, and got up to sit cross-legged on your bed, facing him. “You do. Why?”

He paused, then dog-eared his book, tossed it aside, mirrored your posture, and finally met your gaze. You both sat there, staring at each other for a beat.

“I dunno,” he said with a shrug.

“Scott. Stop fuckin’ around.” The beds were close enough together that you uncurled one leg from beneath you and kicked him lightly in the shin. “Do I remind you of someone, or something? Do I just always have something in my teeth?”

“No.”

His noncommittal answers and the unsettling way he refused to look at anything but you sent a tingle of irritation up your spine. “Then what is it? Because for real, I feel like I’m living in a panopticon sometimes.”

“A panopticon?” he repeated with a tense laugh. “Nobody’s watching you.”

“You are. Always. I thought it was because you were waiting for me to fail, looking for an excuse to kick me off the team or something. Is that it?” you asked, annoyed.

He growled and ran a hand through his hair.“You fucking know that’s not it!” he exploded. “What do you want me to say? That I think you’re beautiful? That I can’t keep my eyes off you for some fucking reason? Is that what you wanna hear?”

You stared at him, mouth agape. Shocked silent.

He stood up and started pacing back and forth in front of you. “You want me to tell you that I find you distracting as hell? That I can’t get any fucking work done within twenty feet of you because all I can do is look at you?”

Your eyebrows furrowed together. “If you felt that way then why have you been shitting on me all this time?”

He threw his head back to stare at the ceiling and then looked right back down at you. “I told you before, I wasn’t trying to shit on you, I was trying to help you.”

You stood up in front of him and he froze in place. Your gaze bore into his. “So instead of being empathetic or even polite, you thought it would be helpful to call me names and make fun of me whenever I made a mistake? What is this, the third grade? You were pulling on my pigtails because you liked me?”

The last time you were this close to him, you had to run to the car to quell a panic attack. But that was before—before you knew why Scott did what he did, acted the way he acted. Before you figured out that the look of his that only seemed to showed up around you, the one you didn’t know how to read or couldn’t place, wasn’t curiosity or amusement like you’d initially thought. It was attraction.

“What if I was? What if I do?” he said quietly. His gaze flicked down to your mouth and watched as you licked your lips.

“You tell me,” you murmured. “You gonna do something about it?”

His eyes met yours, briefly, and they must’ve found what they were looking for in them because he took your face in his hands and kissed you hard.

You groaned into his mouth and pressed yourself closer, winding your arms around his waist. He pushed you backwards onto your bed and let you fall to the pillows as he held himself up on top of you. He dipped his head back down and captured your lips with his. You luxuriated in the weight of him, the surprising softness of his mouth, the scratch of his five o’clock shadow warming your cheeks. He smelled so good above you, like rain and fresh linen.

“Been thinkin’ about this for a while,” he murmured. He ran his warm hands over your shoulders, down your arms, across your stomach. Just feeling you. You sighed and scratched at the short hairs at the back of his neck.

“Could’ve happened sooner if you weren’t such a dick,” you whispered playfully as he broke off to plant kisses across your jaw, down your neck.

He nipped you there sharply at your comment and you let out a shocked laugh.

“C’mon, you tellin’ me you didn’t enjoy our back-and-forth? Not even a little?” he asked. You could hear the devious smile in his voice.

You huffed. “I’d have enjoyed it more if you’d also been touching me like this.”

He laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

And then he surged up to kiss you again, sliding his tongue into your mouth to taste you. His fingers wandered down to the hem of your shirt and slipped underneath it to trace the skin of your stomach just above the waistband of your shorts.

“You want this?” he murmured against your mouth.

“Yeah. Take it off,” you whispered, and he wasted no time pulling the shirt over your head. He flung it over onto his bed, out of the way, and returned to kiss you, but stopped short. His gaze slipped down and he made a face.

“Were you going to sleep in a sports bra?” he asked, incredulous.

You made a bewildered face at him. “Obviously. I wasn’t just gonna let my tits hang out while sleeping in the same room as you. Wasn’t exactly expecting…this.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Next time, leave it off,” and he pulled it off you. You both struggled a bit to peel it off of you but it eventually found its way onto Scott’s bed with your shirt.

“Next time?” you joked.

He paused, and for a second you thought you’d offended him, but a slow, teasing grin grew across his face. “Yeah, next time. You think I’m gonna have you like this and then never again? I thought you were smart.”

You leaned up, took his lower lip into your mouth and bit down. He groaned. “Be fucking nice,” you murmured.

He chuckled and slid his hand over your tit, tweaking the nipple a bit before moving down, down, down to your panties where he cupped your pussy and squeezed. You groaned at the pressure and bucked your hips up a little, chasing it.

“This don’t feel nice to you?” he asked playfully as he pushed the gusset of your panties aside and slid his fingers through your slick folds. He let out a heavy breath as you inhaled shakily. “Your body’s telling me otherwise.”

“Is that mouth gonna keep running or are you going to make it useful?” you asked, a challenge.

He grinned. “Oh, this mouth is very useful.” He disappeared from above you, kissing his way down your body.

“Really? ‘Cause all it’s doing is yap, yap, y—ah, fuck—”

He’d pulled your panties off and flicked them over to the other bed with the rest of your stuff before drawing his lips over your cunt and licking a hard stripe up it. You groaned and threaded your fingers through his curls, pushing his face even closer into you. He hummed against your cunt, pleased.

“Fuck, Scott, right there—” you moaned, your back arching up into the air as his tongue laved over your clit, licking, sucking, tasting. Your fingers in his hair tightened. “Mmmm, more, put your fingers inside me.”

Scott obliged, slowly easing in one long, thick finger. “Look at you,” he said, staring at your cunt while he fucked one finger, then two into it. “Taking my fingers so good. You like that?”

“God, yes, I like it,” you groaned. “Faster, c’mon, I’m not made of glass.”

He huffed a little laugh but anything he might’ve said after that was lost to you. His mouth, his hands, worked you so efficiently, so deliciously, that what felt like seconds later, you were biting down hard on your bottom lip to keep from screaming his name, but that didn’t do much to stifle your moans of pleasure. Every single one of your muscles relaxed into the bed.

You heard Scott chuckle from between your legs and then he was climbing up and pressing his slick mouth to yours. You groaned at the taste of yourself on his tongue.

“God, that was hot,” you breathed when he finally pulled away.

“Tell me about it,” he said teasingly, and his gaze flicked down to his shorts, where his dick was already standing at attention.

You smiled sweetly at him and reached down to grasp him through the fabric. “I can help you with that.”

“Yeah?” he breathed, his blue eyes blown wide. You surged up to kiss him again.

“Only if you take your clothes off. Gettin’ a little lonely being the only naked one here,” you joked, moving to pull his shirt up over his head. He laughed at your attempt at getting it over his shoulders on your own before he took over, slipping it easily off himself.

You got up to give him more room and watched as he canted his hips up and pulled his shorts and underwear off in one fell swoop. He tossed his clothes onto his bed with your stuff. You stood over him, raking your hungry gaze up his gorgeous body. You exhaled hard.

“At the risk of enlarging your already over-sized ego, I gotta say. You are so fucking hot, Miller.” When your eyes landed on his face, you saw he’d been staring, admiring you as you were him. He grinned when he met your gaze.

“Look who’s talkin’,” he said. You laughed and leaned down to press a quick kiss to his mouth like it was second nature.

“Sit up against the headboard,” you ordered, and he obeyed immediately, his heated gaze never leaving yours.

You knelt on the edge of the bed then swung one leg over his, straddling him. You stared at each other for a second with his hard length between you, then you tangled your fingers in his curls once more and kissed him. It was soft, slow, almost exploratory. You shifted closer, pressing your hips into his and rubbing up against his dick, and he groaned, deepening the kiss in response. His hands fell to your hips, kneading the flesh there.

“Scott. I need you to fuck me,” you moaned against his mouth. He groaned again and gave your hips an especially hard squeeze. “Do you have anything?” you asked.

“In my suitcase, yeah,” he said breathily, and you moved off of him so he could retrieve the condom.

You watched his naked form move across the room, appreciating the generous curve of his ass, the strong slope of his back and shoulders. When he came back with an open box of condoms and a little foil square in his hands, you were all too happy to welcome him back into bed. Your hands skated across his back, his arms, then his chest as he settled back into the headboard and you straddled him once more.

You plucked the condom from his fingers, holding his gaze as you ripped the wrapper with your teeth and slid the rubber on his dick. It was hot in your hands, slick from the precum dripping down it, and you gave it a light squeeze as you began jacking him off.

“Such a pretty dick,” you cooed. “So big. Can’t wait to have it inside me.”

Scott exhaled hard, cupped your face, and pulled you in to kiss you hard. “Fuck. I want you so fucking bad,” he said against your mouth. You’d never heard him so desperate. It sent a thrill straight through your cunt to think that the snarky, untouchable Scott Miller could come this undone by you.

You kissed him once, twice, then held his gaze as you held yourself up, guided him to your entrance, and slowly sank down. “Fuck,” you breathed. It wasn’t just the length of him—it was the girth. He filled you up like nothing you’d ever felt before, and you hadn’t even taken all of him in yet. When you finally bottomed out, your mouth hung open and you just stared.

“Jesus Christ, Scott,” you moaned. “You feel so, so fucking good, oh my fucking god.” With his perfect cock, he had irreversibly transformed you into a size queen. You were almost pissed off knowing how completely this would ruin other men for you.

“God, baby, so do you,” he sighed. “N-not gonna last long.”

You grinned at the pet name and kissed him again. “That’s okay, baby. Just feel it. Want you to feel good too.” You started rocking slowly, rolling your hips against his agonizingly slowly as your tongue explored his mouth. His hands explored too, and they were everywhere on you: in your hair, cupping your jaw, and then kneading your tits, working each nipple into hard nubs, and then down your back, groping your ass and helping you bounce on his lap.

“F-fuck, gonna come,” he groaned. His hips bucked, fucking up into you with force, and you met him thrust for thrust. His eyes were screwed shut, face contorted in a beautiful mask of pleasure. You took his chin in your hands and guided his face towards yours.

“Eyes on me, Miller,” you murmured, the corner of your mouth curling up into a smirk. “Since you like to stare so damn much.”

His lips quirked up at that, but his gaze was no less heated, no less intense. You almost regretted ordering him to stare because, as corny as it might have sounded, you felt like you were drowning in his eyes. He looked at you with so much desire that it almost looked like devotion and your breath caught in your throat. So you caught his lips with yours, pushed your tongue in his mouth, and reveled in the taste of him. His thrusts got sloppier, clumsier, and then he moaned your name into your mouth, holding you tight to his chest as he spilled into the condom. You both stilled, breathing hard, and just looked at each other.

Finally you let yourself catalog the minute details of his face. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the freckles painted across his nose, the dimples in his cheeks. Your hands were still buried in his hair, twirling his curls around your fingers.

“Really unfair that your hair is this nice without product in it,” you said offhandedly.

He laughed. “For how much you’ve been pulling on it? The product would’ve come right off.”

You rolled your eyes and smiled. He tapped your hip twice.

“C’mon, let’s get cleaned up,” he said. You pulled yourself gingerly off of him and padded straight to the bathroom while he knotted off the used condom and tossed it into the garbage.

Later, after he joined you in the bathroom and got you both rinsed off in the shower, you both put your clothes back on. You tried to cuddle in your twin bed for a bit, but with Scott’s height, it just wasn’t comfortable, so he begrudgingly went back over and slipped under the covers of his own bed. Once the lights were out and you were blanketed by darkness and the warmth of this budding thing between you, Scott spoke.

“Let me take you out. Do this right. Dinner and a movie, if you want,” he said quietly.

You grinned into the darkness. “Think you’ll be able to quit staring at me long enough to watch a whole movie?”

The quiet chuckle he let out made something fizz in your chest. “Jury’s out.”

Taglist: @kryptidfiles @supermanville

Ilya is not sure at what point he closed his eyes. It might have been when he saw the other driver, clearly unable to stop on the ice-slick roads, barreling towards them, or the moment of impact, or the few seconds after, as Shane’s Jeep skidded on the road. When the car finally comes to a stop, Ilya’s first irrational thought is, It had to be Christmas Eve.

The sound of his husband’s voice banishes the thought. “Ilya? Baby?” 

Ilya’s eyes snap open and widen in horror when he sees the blood. Shane’s face and hands, the only parts of his skin visible, have small cuts and scrapes from the shattered passenger window. Shane’s side of the Jeep has crumpled inward, and snowfall lands softly on the glass strewn across Shane’s lap.

“Oh my god, Shane,” Ilya breathes, scrambling to turn the car off and unbuckle his seatbelt. He twists himself towards Shane and unbuckles Shane's seatbelt. Ilya's hands hovers momentarily, unsure of where is the safest and least painful to touch, before deciding on Shane’s face, brushing his hair back from his forehead. Shane tries to adjust himself between the center console and the thoroughly wrecked door to his right and winces. 

“Shane, look at me, sweetheart. What hurts?” Ilya asks. 

Before Shane can reply, Ilya hears an unfamiliar voice. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Are you both okay in there?” 

The other driver. Shit. “Trying to figure that out!” Ilya calls back. He turns back to Shane, who has opened his eyes slightly. “Shane, what hurts?” Ilya asks again. 

“My side,” Shane grits out. He tries to take a deep breath in and grimaces. “You okay?” 

Jesus Christ. He can barely breathe and he’s asking about me? “I'm fine. I was not on the side of the car that just got hit,” Ilya says. He opts not to tell Shane about the stiffness in his neck and shoulders. Whiplash, he can assume, and certainly not his most pressing concern right now. “Can you move? Can I move you?” 

“Where?” Shane asks, his eyes meeting Ilya’s. 

“Fuck if I know, but we do not have to stay here. Maybe this guy who hit us can drive us somewhere. Least he could do.” Ilya attempts a smile. 

“Okay,” Shane croaks, squeezing his eyes shut again. 

“I will go around the other side and try to open your door so you can get out,” Ilya says, but as he begins to back out of the car, Shane grabs his arm with a groan. “The pain is worse?” Ilya asks. Shane nods. 

Ilya’s mind races. Should he even try to move Shane before he knows what’s wrong? What if moving him hurts him more?

“Maybe my ribs are broken?” Shane says. His voice goes up like he’s asking a question, but Ilya can’t tell if Shane is asking him, or himself, or whatever godforsaken force of nature has it out for them tonight. Even though it’s only been a few minutes since the crash, and not nearly enough time to collect himself, Ilya realizes he has not checked the state of Shane's body under his clothes. He can't see any blood seeping through Shane's sweatshirt and jeans, so he takes this as a good sign. As good as things can be while still being completely fucking terrifying.

Ilya cranes his neck and calls out to the other driver, who is lingering at a distance by his pick-up truck. “Hey!” The man hurries over. He's middle-aged and wearing a frightfully ugly Christmas sweater.

“Can I help you guys? I’m so sorry, the ice made the side roads slick and I couldn’t stop and just – ” The words pour out of him until Ilya holds up a hand. 

“I need you to call 911 right now. My husband is hurt and we probably need an ambulance,” Ilya says, as calmly as he can. His heart pounds loudly in his chest, in his ears, but he has to make sure Shane gets what he needs right now. 

“Oh my god. Yes. Yes.” The other driver’s hands fly to his coat pockets, and Ilya turns his attention back to Shane. 

“The other guy is calling 911. It will be okay,” Ilya says. He brushes the broken glass on Shane’s lap onto the floor, hoping to avoid Shane injuring himself more in the time it takes for emergency services to arrive. Ilya's hands return to their natural place, cradling Shane’s face. 

“Okay,” Shane repeats. 

The other driver leans in through the window. “I’m calling now. I’m Greg. What are your names?” 

“I am Ilya. This is my husband, Shane,” Ilya replies as Greg dials and holds his phone to his ear. Ilya faintly hears the 911 operator’s voice coming through Greg’s phone.

“Your hands are cold,” Shane says, and Ilya turns back down to where his hands grip Shane’s face. It dawns on Ilya only then that they’re sitting in their totaled car without any outerwear to combat the biting cold and snow. He reaches into the backseat, grabs their coats, and puts his own on. He goes to drape Shane’s over him when he sees Shane’s eyelids flutter closed. 

“No, Shane, keep your eyes open,” Ilya says, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. “You have to stay awake, okay?” 

“Concussion protocol?” Shane asks. He blinks and a crease forms between his eyebrows. Ilya has to suppress a hysterical laugh. What he wouldn’t give for this to be a typical hockey injury, surrounded by other players and fans. And the Centaurs’ medical staff. 

“How old are you guys?” Greg calls. “And do you have any preexisting medical conditions they need to know about?” 

“I am fine. Is not for me,” Ilya insists. “Shane is thirty-one. He is very healthy, but we are athletes so he has had concussions and other injuries before. He is complaining most about pain in his side. He might have broken ribs?” 

Greg nods and relays the information to the 911 operator. After a long pause, Greg turns back to him, face grim, and says, “We’re 20 minutes from the nearest hospital. EMS are on their way and will be here as soon as they can, but this weather really isn’t helping.” 

Fucking Christ. Thanks for the reassurance, Greg. Ilya only nods. He turns back to Shane. “Did you hear that, moya lyubov? The ambulance is on its way. You just have to stay awake until then, okay?” Ilya says. 

“I’m tired, baby,” Shane murmurs. He has slumped further into his seat, his body zapped of the energy required to keep itself upright. Tears glisten in Shane's half-lidded eyes. Ilya can’t tell if the tears are from pain or fear, and he isn’t sure he wants to know. 

“I know. I know. Here, let me get my phone.” Ilya fishes around in his pockets. “We need to call your parents so they can meet us. Stay awake and talk to them.” 

Ilya finds Yuna’s contact in seconds and hits call. He holds his phone on speaker between himself and Shane, and the phone rings once, twice, before Yuna answers. 

“Hey, you! How far out are you and Shane?” Yuna asks brightly. 

“Yuna,” Ilya says, and pauses as voice catches painfully. He did not realize how close he was to falling apart until he heard his mother-in-law’s voice.

“Ilya?” Yuna says, clearly and instantly alarmed. “What’s wrong?” 

“We were in a car accident on the way home. Shane is hurt. His ribs, maybe. The guy in the other car called 911 and we're waiting for the ambulance. Can you and David meet us at the hospital?” 

“Oh, honey. Of course. Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Ilya hears various rustling sounds as Yuna gathers herself on the other end of the phone.

“No, I am fine. With Shane now, trying to keep him awake.” 

“He’s going to sleep? Ilya, did he hit his head?” 

“I don’t know,” Ilya says. A tear falls from his eye onto Shane’s lap and he looks to Shane helplessly, knowing that his barely conscious husband is not in any position to help him explain what just happened to them. With a tremulous voice, he continues, “It all happened so fast.” 

“Okay, honey. It’s okay. It’ll be okay. Can I talk to Shane? Is he lucid enough?” 

“Yes, you are on speaker. Talk to your mother, sweetheart.” Ilya moves the phone closer to Shane. He swipes at his eyes with his free hand and runs his through Shane’s hair soothingly, eventually coming to rest at the back of Shane's neck. 

“Mom?” Shane says, sounding so young and so small. More tears trail down Ilya’s cheeks. 

“Oh, Shane. Hi, honey. Your dad and I are going to meet you and Ilya at the hospital, alright? You just have to hold on until then.” 

“I’m trying, Mom. I swear,” Shane says. His eyelids begin to droop again. 

“No, no, no. Stay with me,” Ilya says. 

“Ilya, we’re getting in the car now!” Yuna says. 

“I do not think I can stay on the phone and take care of him at the same time. My mind is… everywhere,” Ilya says. 

“Okay,” Yuna says, resolute. “Okay. Take care of him, then. Call me as soon as you can. I love you both so much.” 

“I love you,” Ilya says around the lump in his throat. 

“Love you,” Shane repeats. 

“I love you. I’ll see you soon,” Yuna replies, and hangs up. 

“Baby,” Shane says. Ilya can only see a sliver of his brown eyes. “I think I'm going to sleep now.” 

Ilya didn't think it was possible, but his panic spikes further. “You can't. I know you're tired. Remember, the ambulance is coming. They will take care of you. You have to stay awake until they get here.” Ilya lowers himself closer to Shane’s face, so neither of them can see anything but each other. 

“I can’t,” Shane whispers, and his eyes are already closing. “I’m sorry.” 

“No. I am sorry. I am so sorry. Please stay with me,” Ilya pleads, shaking Shane’s face gently. “I love you, Shane. I love you more than anything.” 

“I love you, Ilya,” Shane says faintly.

"Shane?" Ilya gives him another slight shake, with no response. 

An animal noise leaves Ilya’s mouth, part gasp and part sob. Footsteps pound against the pavement, coming to a halt when Greg peeks in. 

“What happened?” Greg asks, panicked. 

Ilya can barely see through his tears. “He passed out. I tried to keep him awake but he kept saying he was tired. He needs help now.” 

“Oh, god,” Greg says. He pulls out his phone. “I called 911 seven minutes ago. Hopefully they’ll be here in another ten minutes or so.” 

That isn’t soon enough for Ilya. Ten seconds wouldn’t be soon enough for Ilya. He turns away so this stranger, who caused this, can’t see his anguish. 

“I’ll keep an eye out for them. You all stay here,” Greg says. As if Ilya could ever leave Shane like this. 

The minutes stretch long as Ilya sits in silence with his husband. He can tell Shane is still breathing, but this fact is cold comfort. Ilya feels like he might suffocate if he does not do something, so he carefully tucks Shane's coat tighter around him and buries his face in Shane’s hair and starts talking again. 

“I love you, Shane. So much. I am so sorry. It was my idea to go to the cottage for Christmas. If we stayed at home in Ottawa this never would have happened. You have to wake up, and you have to be okay. Your parents need you. Your friends need you. The team needs you. But no one needs you more than me. I do not know what I would do without you. I love you. I love you.” 

After what feels like an interminable wait, Ilya hears distant sirens and snaps upright. “They're here,” he says, mostly to himself. 

After some shuffling with the car door, various faces and hands appear around Shane’s Jeep, pulling his body out into the evening air. After a moment of staring blankly at the space where Shane was, Ilya realizes someone is speaking to him. 

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me? Where are you hurt?” a young female voice asks. A paramedic has climbed onto the seat next to him and is looking at him with urgency. 

“Please help him,” Ilya says. “Please.” He peers around her, out of the car, where two other paramedics lay Shane on a gurney in front of them, and begin to talk over him indistinctly once they realize they will not get a response from Shane himself.

“My teammates are helping him. They are checking his vitals and trying to see why he is unconscious. Your husband, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“I promise they’ll do everything they can for him. But I’m sure he would want you to get treatment, too. I’m Louisa. What’s your name? Are you in any pain?” 

“Ilya. My neck is sore. And my shoulders.” 

“Okay, Ilya, I can give you something for the pain in the ambulance and examine you further there. Do you feel alright to walk? No dizziness? No wounds I can't see right now?” 

Ilya shakes his head, unable to take his eyes off of Shane. The other paramedics lift the gurney onto its wheels and begin moving Shane towards the ambulance. “Will he be okay?” 

Louisa reaches out to touch Ilya’s arm cautiously, and follows through when Ilya doesn’t flinch or pull away. “You called 911 right away. You didn’t move him and risk complicating his injuries. We got here as fast as we could, and we will do everything to help him. We will know more about what we can do once we get to the hospital, too.” She smiles warmly, reassuringly.

Ilya tries to smile back, but recognizes all too acutely that her answer is evasive. She can offer him no guarantees. He takes a deep breath, opens his car door, an exits onto the empty road. Louisa makes an “after you” gesture, and he walks as quickly as he can to where the ambulance sits, lights flashing, on the slick pavement. He climbs in next to Shane, and Louisa follows. 

“We will need to work, so I’m sorry, but I can’t advise you to hold his hand or touch him. But I like to think people can feel their loved one’s presence in an emergency, especially spouses. He knows you’re there for him,” Louisa says. 

Library

If you live near me and are a user of the Mid-Continent Public Library system, there are copies to borrow in print and in Overdrive. If you live further from me, you may be able to request a copy be added to your library, although it depends on how your system sources books.

Print

It's being retailed through small bookshops. If you live in the KC metro area, you can allegedly purchase a copy from Monstera's Books, Rainy Day Books, Basement Books KC, and KD's Books. You can purchase it online through Monstera's Books.

Ebook

The ebook is currently available in the following places:

Everand (30 day free trial available)

Bookshop.org

Barnes & Noble

Booktopia (Australia)

Kobo (Canada)

Audiobook

The press at one point said they hoped to apply for a grant so they could make an audiobook. If that was an NEH grant, god help them. I haven't heard anything about this since, so I doubt it's imminent, at the very least.

Which makes you the most money?

I'm only including this because I've seen other indie authors get asked it. I am not getting any royalties from bookstore sales, and I'm ok with that. The press is a non-profit, and they're paying me a stipend that honestly will probably be more than the royalties would've been. I have no idea what the ebook finances situation is, but presumably I'm not seeing any of it or they would've told me. I will make a small amount from the exclusive copies, but that's before calculating in the administrative effort of processing orders, driving to the post office, figuring out the tax implications, etc., so for all I know I'm going to lose money on those. Basically, do not make your selection based on what you think might help me out! Just purchase whichever version you prefer, if you wish to purchase at all.