#twisters fluff

After a day of chasing storms, getting dirt practically embedded into your skin, the chaos of all the voices, the engines, the winds, this was your peace, your grounding. The soft music buzzing as you swayed back and forth as the water fell down your body. Washing down the drain along with the dirty water was all your anxiety from the day. While you loved chasing tornadoes, you also fully were aware of the effect it had on your psyche. You weren’t as easy as the others in the crew. Boone loved the thrill, he was crazy in the best way possible. Lilly was a free-spirit, she would go wherever the winds blew her and thrive effortlessly. Dani and Dexter, they were too smart for their own good, every equation, every problem, they’d smile through finding the solution. And Tyler, well, he was a good combination of it all while also just plainly and simply loving it. The clouds, the storms, he found beauty in them. For him it was passion.  For you, you did enjoy it, the thrill of it all, the problem solving, the fact that it kept you on your toes moving.  And you couldn’t lie, the storms were fucking beautiful when you really looked at them. But for you the reasoning was more difficult. You wanted to help. But that came with a heavy burden, but for you helping outweighed all those bad moments. That’s how it was for everyone in the crew, you just felt like the mental images of wreckage stayed with you a little longer than everyone else. Which is why these showers were your favorite, it helped you process it all. 

“Hey baby, it’s just me!” Tyler called out as he entered the motel room. “Just lookin’ for Lilly’s drone repair case!” His eyes were looking around the room, there were tons of bags and things scattered across the floor, the beds, and anything resembling a table. His announcement out to you was just so he didn’t startle you with his presence, but he knew very well how important that end of the day shower was to you which is why he wasn’t paying much attention to the open door of the bathroom. 

Between the music on your phone and the shower you didn’t hear him come in. Just continued your swaying, letting the water bounce off your face. As the song changed, you began to mumble along, your voice echoing against the bathroom acoustics despite you only lowly singing with the speaker. 

As Tyler bent down to grab the case, his eyebrows furrowed, the left side of his lips twitched up in a smile, his mouth open as he let out a whispered chuckle. There was a lot crossing his mind at the moment. It was obvious you hadn’t heard him come in, not because you were singing but because you were singing and hadn’t acknowledged him. As he heard you mumbling the country music from damn near a decade ago he couldn’t help but grin. It was music you’d both listen to when you first started dating. The song was one he hadn’t heard in ages but when it filled his ears now, and your voice joined along with it, he couldn’t wipe the grin from his face. His head turned towards the bathroom door that was wide open as he stood up straight, the drone case now in his hand resting at his side. The frosted shower curtain tried its best to censor out what was behind it, but your blurred silhouette could still be seen as you moved your hips back and forth to the beat. That grin on Tyler's grin didn’t fade, if anything it grew bigger. Dropping the case on the bed before walking over to the bathroom, he leaned his shoulder on the open door frame as his arms crossed, and his right foot crossed over the left. Seeing you like this made his heart happy, he was no stranger to the weight your storm chasing days had on you. His mind couldn’t help but jump back to those first few years of your relationship, ones that were littered with memories of late night drives, line dancing and stepping on eachother’s feet, camping out in the bed of his truck in the middle of the Arkansas farmland plains. It was crazy that all this time had passed and you hadn’t done any of the things that made you fall in love with each other for what now he realized felt like a really long time. Your lives were consumed with this and while he knew you didn’t mind, it didn’t stop his own from wandering. His head fell down with one more smile, opting to not say anything to you and ruin your post-chase ritual. Pushing off the door frame, he grabbed the case and left the motel room to rejoin the group outside. 

Your hair was still damp from the shower, but you had fresh clothes on and felt like a new person. Quickly you tossed your shoes on, grabbed your phone from the bathroom sink and made your way down the stairs to join the crew. At this point, they had all gathered around the bonfire, leaving the rest of the repairs and work for tomorrow. Guitars of some of the chasers from other groups were playing as the groups gathered with their beers and mingled. It was one of your favorite things about being on the road like this, just random people joining together all in the common interest of storms. But these moments weren't always about twisters, they were about comradery, they were about friendship, laughs. It was memories in the making.

As you reached into the cooler, you pulled out two cans of beer. The condensation and melted ice falling off them in drops as you made your way closer to the bonfire circle. While there weren't many empty seats left around the fire, you knew you always had one reserved for you. You spotted Tyler before you even trekked down the stairs of the motel, his laugh was loud and could be heard from miles away. Your eyes had found him in the crowd almost immediately so once you were on the ground level, all you needed to do was make your way over to him. 

“Hey.” It came out as a whisper in his ear while leaning over the back of the chair he was reclined slightly back on. Your hands fell down against his chest, the cold beers you got for both of you were resting against him now. He stopped talking and looked up at you, his hand instinctively reaching up your arms and guiding you to sit down in his lap which you did without hesitation.

“Hey country girl.” His left hand caught your back as you moved down onto his legs, his other hand resting over your legs that dangled off the side of him as well as the chair. 

As your face scrunched up in a humorous and unclear look, you adjusted yourself in his lap, Tyler providing you support as you did so. 

“Country girl?” You questioned him, still confused as to what he meant. You were a lot of things, nickname wise, to him. He’d come up with something for everything over the years but this was one you hadn’t heard. 

He didn’t answer you, just smiled and placed a quick kiss on your arm before taking one of the beers from your hands to crack open before continuing his conversation from before you arrived.

And if that wasn’t enough, Lilly’s voice was taking you away from even thinking about what Tyler had said. “We fixed the drone!”

Tyler's head was resting on the side of your arm, chatting with the person to his left, although to you it was behind. Your time was being occupied by leaning forward a bit to talk with Lilly who was in the seat to Tyler’s right. She was catching up on the details with Cairo, the drone that had been just as much a part of your crew as each human member. You were so invested in the conversation that you almost missed the familiar strumming in the faint distance. It took you a few seconds but your head turned and took in the guitar players nodding and tapping their feet to the song you were just singing to while you showered. 

Your lips began to curve up, you felt Tyler’s hand move up your back, rubbing it over your shirt. As you looked down at him, your smile still only slightly curved and your eyes knowingly doing all the talking for you, his own grin widened and he looked down away from your gaze with a laugh. 

“Tyler Owens, were you spying on me?” You whispered it, only wanting this to be a moment between the two of you. 

“It’s possible.” He cheesed even harder as he looked back up into your gaze again. 

With a shake of your head, you looked away so you could roll your eyes before nestling in closer to him. Your side was falling against his chest, but your head found its comfortable position rested on his shoulder as you sunk down a bit more. “You told them to play this?” 

“I did.” He said it so matter of fact while looking over at the guitar players, his hands coming around you tighter as he held you as close to him as possible. “I came in to grab somethin’ for Lilly. Called out to you and everythin’.” His shoulders moved your face up and down as he shrugged. “Just as I was about to leave I heard this song start, and some pretty little voice joinin’ along with it.” You felt yourself get a little warm as he said it, a mix of fluster and a little embarrassment. “Got me thinkin’ about when we first started hangin’ out.” 

“S’why I listen to it. It reminds me of you.” You knew Tyler felt a little warm in the cheeks too. 

Both of you closed your eyes and just let the music consume you. His head relaxing slightly on yours as you both slightly moved to the beat. You felt his lips against your temple a couple times as the song went on. Each one saying how much you meant to him. 

As the song began to wind down, Tyler hummed. “We should do some of the old stuff we used to do again.” 

You let out a slight snort, one that made Tyler laugh as well as he waited for some explanation. “Tornado wranglers by day and country line dancers by night?” 

“Was talkin’ more about the truck bed camping and late night drives.” While both of you had done the line dancing thing, it by far wasn’t your favorite event. Thinking about it, you both might have gotten more injured there than you did chasing tornadoes. 

“We could do that.” Agreeing, you still kept your eyes closed shut, enjoying the last bits of the song, reimagining the old memories you shared while now thinking of how you could make them new. “Would be a nice change of pace.” 

“I could join you next time in the shower, too. If you’re just looking for a change of pace.” His eyebrows raised as he opened his one eye to peek over at you for your reaction. 

“Could work.” A smirk played at your lips in response. It was then that you realized the song was starting over and you opened your eyes to look at Tyler as your brows grew closer together. “How many times did you ask them to play it?” You were sitting up now, trying to figure out what Tyler was up to.

His arms were still wrapped around your body despite you moving up. “Told ‘em to play until you danced with me.” 

With a similar eye roll as before, you stood up now, your hands filling the space where his just were on your hips in a slight show of attitude. Those damn blue green eyes were looking up at you with the most tender and sweet look attached to them. One that you couldn’t bear to let down so you extended your hand out for him to take it. “Let’s go, Owens.” 

His hand gripped around yours in seconds and when he stood up, he raised his arm with yours to twirl you around until you spun against his chest. Your free hand raising up to brace for impact on his pecks. “We gotta work on your balance if we’re gonna be going line dancing.” He teased you before starting to walk with you practically connected to his chest to a more open area of the lot. After a couple steps, he was turning his body away from you to lead you through the crowd, his hand still connected with yours as you trailed behind him. Once the more open area was in your midst, he turned towards you and you wrapped your arm over his own so your hand was resting on his shoulder but you were leaning more into him than a more traditional slow dance hand placement. Your other hand still hadn’t let go of his own even as the swaying began, but you did feel his other arm caress your lower back to the beat, not only in a romantic way but one that kept you both moving on rhythm. This wasn’t where you expected your night going, but you were damn enjoying it, that was for sure. 

“I know this is hard on you.” His words weren’t the ones you were expecting, so as your fingers moved from his shoulders to get tangled in his blonde hair, you frowned despite knowing exactly what he was saying and looked down to make a joke out of it.

“Pretty sure I haven’t stepped on your foot once yet.” 

“No,” he laughed before getting serious again, “I just meant, I know the chase, it can wear you down.” 

You nodded in agreement but shrugged up at him, your fingers moving from his hair to lightly trace his cheek. “Stuff like this makes it easier.” 

He dipped his head in acknowledgment of your words before letting the music take over for a bit, but you weren’t going to leave it there. You wanted him to really understand that you meant what you said. 

“You know you still keep me on my toes, Owens.” You spoke to him, still shocked by how the night had progressed. 

“Good, because I don’t need you stepping on mine.” He looked down when you accidentally misstepped causing both of you to come closer together in laughs. He drew you closer, the embrace was one that spoke so much with such a small gesture. It was reassurance, the feeling of never wanting to let you go or let go of the memories you two shared over the years either. 

And that’s when you rested your head on him, now with your bodies completely against each other, your arms wrapped around his neck, realizing this moment would be added to that list. To seal its impression you lifted your head to look up at Tyler, your eyes moving from his to his lips and then brought your interlocked fingers to the nape of his neck to bring his face closer to yours. The soft, intimate kiss was your souvenir from this moment, your way of embedding this memory right along with your other cherished ones.

Tyler smiles, taking in the sight of you before him.

He couldn’t agree more.

Sunlight frames your body like a halo, the angel come down to earth he’d always wanted, but never felt he deserved.

Affection warms his heart at the thought. Now’s the time.

“Tyler!” You cry, shouting over your shoulder, camera still pressed to your face. “Tyler, do you see—“ But your voice dies on the wind the second you turn around.

There’s a rustle from the RV behind him. Then, a gasped “Oh my God!”

Knee digging into the gravel, tiny black box cradled in his hands, Tyler watches as the shock on your face slowly drains away to disbelief.

“No… Tyler, you can’t—I don’t—“

Tears form a defense in your eyes, and you blink, battling them away.

Your name drifts off his lips, vulnerable like a prayer, his heart shaking like a leaf within his chest. Blown by the very winds around them.

He should list your strengths, your attributes, every miniscule detail he adores about you. Hell, at the very least he should use your full name. But instead, the only words to leave his lips are a desperate, “I love you. Baby, I’ve loved you since the first time I laid eyes on you. I knew then, and I know now… you’re the storm I want to chase for the rest of my life.” He fumbles with the box, revealing the small, elegant diamond Boone and Dexter had helped him pick out months ago. “Will—” his throat tightens, anxiety pounding in his blood. “Sweetheart, will you marry me?”

Your tears breach the barrier, cresting and rolling in fat droplets down your cheeks. Tyler watches as your lips tremble, mouth attempting to form words without a sound. Finally, the word he’s been holding his breath for since that first night in a seedy, run-down bar, drinks flowing and tongues wagging. The word he’s on one knee for now, praying will leave your mouth.

“Yes.”

It’s so quiet, barely audible over the ever-increasing winds. But the look on your face tells Tyler everything he needs to know.

Sweet ecstasy of relief floods his entire body.

“Yeah?” he questions, just to be sure.

A wide grin splits across your face, and you step closer, arms snaking around his shoulders.

“Tyler Owens,” you lean in close, lips inches away from his own, until he’s breathing your breath. “If you’re the last storm I chase for the rest of my life, I’ll die the happiest woman in the world.”

He pulls you into a kiss, your lips soft and supple beneath his. Your fingers tangle in the ends of his hair.

Whooping and hollering startles you both out of the kiss, the rest of the Wranglers descending like vultures. They talk over themselves, tripping over their tongues.

“It’s about time, T! What took you so long?” Dani.

“Congratulations! I dibs maid of honour!” Lily.

“The fans are going to love this!” Boone, stepping closer to the two of you, camera in hand.

Tyler turns to him, the lens now pointed directly in his face. You shift in his arms, waving shyly to the fans. A blush the colour of a dying sunset rises starkly on your cheeks.

“You think so, Boone?” Tyler grins, cheekily. Then, without thinking, he’s grabbing your chin, slowly descending into a long, deep kiss, pulling the ring out of the box and slipping it on your finger to the whoops and cheers of the rest of the gang.

He’s moving against her like he’s hungry for it, moving in waves to meet her, lips launching their fervent assault. And all the whimpers escaping her are trapped by his lips over hers, driving her even crazier.

Her fingers are clutching onto him wherever they can, digging in, staking claim. Through his hair, pulling at the nape of his neck, clawing at the flesh of his shoulders.

This time, a groan passes his lips, the thrum of it turning into warmth that engulfs her all over again.

And then he’s gone, his weight no longer hovering completely over her. Her heart seems to skip over itself at his sudden absence. But when she feels those lips land just below her sternum, it falls back into rhythm. There he is, his hands and mouth falling into a pattern, working one over the other, trailing lower and lower.

Her hands are tangled in his increasingly messy curls, tugging at them when his lips brush the last bit of fabric keeping him from what he really wants. It’s not because she wants him to stop—because that is most certainly not the case—but  because of how definitive the moment will be. There will have been a before and an after, and she would be remiss to not give it a beat of consideration.

He seems to sense her wandering mind, tilting his head up in her hands to look at her.

“Are you ok?” He asks, breathless and flushed.

And looking down at him, hands braced over her lips, chin resting on the pink trim of her underwear that she suddenly finds embarrassing, looking so genuinely concerned, she’s a million miles better than ok.

All she can really manage through her erratic breaths is a nod—albeit an enthusiastic one.

He nods back in confirmation. Then he presses another slow, firm kiss, still looking at her as much as he can. “Is this ok?” Another kiss.

Oh god yes.

“Oh god yes.”

And if she weren’t so gone, she’d berate him about the obvious smirk he tries to disguise with another peck. But before she has time to think on that any longer, he’s pulling the fabric away from her skin. Her breath hitches just at the feeling of it, but looking down to observe it is something else entirely.

From her vantage point, she can see where he has the pink lace between his teeth, stark against his perfect grin, and his fingers on her hips, helping to slip them down lower. And lower. And lower. The feeling of his teeth nipping at the skin has her head rolling back into the pillow, anticipation and reluctance melting cruelly together.

Fortunately, his focus is elsewhere. Even he’s growing desperate at this point, suffering just to draw it all out a little longer. Finally, he hooks a finger into the fabric, retreating from her just enough to remove it entirely. As quickly as he can, he’s back over her, letting heavy hands fall to her thighs, pinning them exactly where he wants them. He’s so close she can feel the warmth of his breath, but it’s still not close enough.

She sucks a breath, then—

Then a horrible clanging sound cracks into the room, metallic and squealing.

It wakes her with a start.

She juts up at the waist a la Frankenstein’s creation, hand clutching at her heaving chest as if to steady her heartbeat.

Her eyes dart around the room, registering the darkness of it. The TV is off, which strikes her as odd because it was on when she fell asleep, but everything else remains, to the best of her knowledge, normal. That is, until she searches the bedside table for the time and finds the alarm clock screen black.

Power’s out.

And now that she’s registered it, it occurs to her that her cool, sixty-seven degree air is no longer pumping into the room, setting her already burning figure ablaze. She figures that’s what the horrid noise was, somewhat relieved that there’s no axe man trying to break in.

She peels the sheet off her damp skin, kicking it away in search of a relief. Her heart is still thrashing in her chest and she’s not sure she can blame it all on the outage. She’s grateful the fever dream ended when it did, though, not allowing her shameless dream-self to make any more obscene mistakes. But even now, thinking it over just seconds later, she can feel the heat it conjures pooling in her belly.

Absolutely not, Ally.

She forces herself up, chancing a drink of the tap water just to cool down. When that doesn’t work, she shoves on her slippers and steps outside, draping over the railing trying to soak up the night air. It works, too, like regulating her body somehow forces the evil thoughts from her brain.

After she’s calmed down a bit, and the sweat has evaporated off of her, she relaxes, scanning the motel’s surroundings. Fields and field grass and tumbleweeds and wire fences as far as she can see. There are only two overhead lights in the parking lot, at the front and back sections, though it’s a small enough area that they’re sufficient. Under the light of the former, a fleet of white vehicles is lined up, not one civilian car between them. She almost snorts.

Of course they take the front row.

But then her rolling eyes land on one truck in particular. In uniform grey lettering, it reads: Lion.

She takes a deep breath.

“Jesus christ.”

₊⊹

It’s about two degrees past bearable and three too many people shoved into this roadside diner’s cracking booth.

“Maybe we should trail West, past Granger. It’s looking gloomy over that way,” Boone suggests from the other side of the table.

He’s met with a resounding, cacophonous, “No!”

He holds up two surrendering hands, sinking lower into the booth, sucking down his lemonade. “Just an idea,” he mumbles through his straw.

As with all good things, storm chasing doesn’t always come easy. Clouds shift, winds change, radars apparently fucking lie. On a day like today, when promised clouds dissipate before they’ve fully formed, and the sun has already broken free of them by the afternoon, tensions and temperatures tend to run high. And, sandwiched between Dani and the wall, emphatically uninterested in the circle of a conversation dominating the table, eyes also tend to wander. Over the hive of people writhing wall-to-wall in the restaurant. To the ancient fan shaking as it functions on what must be its max setting.

Landing on the mountain of a man looming over Javi Rivera at the counter.

Her eyes narrow, raking over him there. Of course he’s here, all of Corporate America in tow, taking up what is, to her, entirely too much space. She allows herself to bore a little further, panning the room, noting the way their team is seated all around it, appropriately fixed four to a table—unlike hers, still squished and squabbling. Then she darts back to him. Apparently, she’s brazen in the heat, not bothering to politely divert her eyes or pretend like she’s doing anything other than staring rudely.

Not that she needs to abide by the laws of social engagement now; he hasn’t so much as rolled an eye her way in the past four days.

She’s unaffected, though—really. She hasn’t spent so much as a flicker of a passing thought on him, at all. Sure, the mind can float to strange corners in the throes of AC-less, sleepless nights, but that’s more a hallucination than a thought. Does it really count if it’s the product of a chemical reaction rather than an intention?

Here, though, sticky with sweat and generally fed up, her impatience seeps into the light of day. It’s just that there’s something to be said about the axiomatic, unfriendly, taught-lipped smile that has been a staple of the Wrangler–Storm Par working relationship—that he’s suddenly decided to abandon.

And the way he’s decided to completely ignore her even apart from that.

When her eyes focus again in post-stream-of-consciousness clarity, they’re fixed not on the side of Scott’s face, but directly on icy blue, boring right back into her. Despite how badly she wants to shrink away from it, and the sudden thickness in her chest, she holds firm. After a couple pointed seconds, he flicks back to Javi, never betraying a thing.

Classic.

When he’s safely unaware of her again, turned away and mumbling to his partner, she allows herself a steadying breath, casting her attention back to her group.

“It’s roasting in here,” she says loud enough to draw their attention back from their side conversations, “I’m gonna close out and find Tyler.”

She nods to the open end of the booth, prompting Dani and Dexter to file out so she can peel herself from the vinyl and grab the check. When they decline anything to go, she sucks a preparatory breath and sets her sights back on the counter.

Wading through warm bodies, ticket in hand, she finally lands just next to Javi, sidling up to the laminate counter in front of an aging register. With the waitresses busy and floating around behind her, she resigns herself to waiting.

“Hey, Ally.” Javi’s ever-joyous voice pulls her attention downward.

“Hey, Javi,” she smiles back.

On the other side of him, Scott focuses on his opened laptop, scrolling through a series of numbers. Her and Javi both look on, expectant.

Eventually, deflated, she turns fully back to the register, “Scott.”

He lifts a hand, not bothering to follow it with his eyes.

She hears Javi chide him next to her, but doesn’t acknowledge it. Her foot is tapping maniacally, credit card keeping time as it flicks against the counter. Finally, a waitress appears behind the counter. She’s short—Ally’s eyes lower to meet her—but imposing, a textbook Midwest beauty queen, all pink lips and shimmery eyeshadow. The crinkles by her eyes and hair piled in a teased bun on her head give away her years, probably somewhere north of forty-five, but she beams up at her like the woes of adulthood have yet to touch her.

“Hey, Doll! What can I do you for?” It comes out bubbly, too-loud and shaped by that almost-southern accent they encounter so often off these county roads.

“Just the check, thank you so much,” Ally chirps back, handing the ticket over.

Her acrylic nails clack at the formica and her name tag glimmers off her shirt. Rita. She likes Rita.

When the older woman looks back to her asking for a signature, she asks, “So, a pretty thing like you surely can’t be here with this weather-crazy crowd, right?”

She smiles and slides her card back into her wallet, “I hate to break it to you, ma’am…” she trails off, looking guilty.

“No!” Her painted lips fold into feigned betrayal.

“Afraid so.”

“Well, which one of these rowdy bunches do you belong to?”

Her pen swoops over the receipt paper and she picks it up, pointing it behind her, “That would be them. They like to call themselves the Wranglers, but between us, I’m plotting a coup.”

She can feel where their conversation has drawn the attention of her peers at the bar and Scott punctuates it with a snort. She ignores it, glancing back to Rita after plopping her used pen back in the cup.

When she finds Rita’s eyes again, though, her joking manner seems to be lost on her. Instead of downright gleeful, her face seems to be suspended between shell shocked and petrified. Her mom’s grating Allison Whitley, mind your manners! plays on a loop, bouncing off her skull.

Not much for social graces.

But before she can try to remedy the situation, Rita is suddenly stuttering. “Wranglers? From the YouTube?”

Realization quickly rises from her stomach to a wildfire sweeping across her cheeks. “That’s the one.” Her smile is tight, weighed down by the sudden intensity of Javi and Scott’s presence to her right.

“Oh, dear. My son watches y’all all the time,” her voice drops for the next part, leaning over the counter, “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t fond of that Tyler. He could wrangle more than a tornadeo outta me, if you know what I mean.”

Shoving herself off the counter to put some distance between them, Ally’s jaw seems to have walked off into the parking lot. She manages an agape nod, chasing a polite smile, entertained and horrified all in one.

“Rita, I think we all know what you mean.” Her head snaps to Javi, who’s just offered his agreement, every tooth in his mouth exposed and twinkling.

Charmed, Rita turns her attention to him, “So, what about you two?” Her teal nail flicks between him and Scott, “You two Wranglers?”

In a historic burst of energy, Scott jumps to answer, “Nope."

The lackluster response thuds between them, clattering to the counter and sending Rita shrinking back. She takes a beat, looking between the three faces across from her, seeming to lose interest in the conversation with every blink. Finally, she takes a breath and perks back up.

“Well, that’s nice,” she pats Ally’s hand, “You take care dear, lovely to meet you!” She whirls back, retreating from them.

Ally smiles back at her, nodding as she makes her exit, then leans past Javi over the counter to catch Scott on the other side. “Brilliant as always, sunshine.” Even as she tries to be snippy, she loses steam coming toe-to-toe with him. With that face.

And that mouth.

"Entertaining sexual innuendos with strangers is unprofessional." He still won't look at her straight on.

She’s got a few he could entertain.

"Huh, I didn't realize you caught that, big guy.” Javi jabs, patting his shoulder.

The stare back is stoney and thankfully not laser-capable. His jaw ticks and he takes a beat before answering. "We've got cells developing. We should head out.” He slots his sunglasses back on, giving the gum in his cheek a particularly pointed chew, and rises to leave without another glance in their direction.

And maybe it stings a little.

“What a peach.”

“Aw, he’s not too bad,” Javi says, standing fully now. Then, seeing the mildly unconvinced look on her face, “He’s a gentle giant—when you get to know him. And besides, you’re on his good side.”

She raises a brow, conjuring up a memory, “He once told me I should audition for the next Hills Have Eyes movie because I carry the right charisma for it.”

“So he sees your potential,” Javi offers.

“And that I’d get the role.”

“Listen, all I’m hearing is he’s thinking about you, recognizing your talents. Maybe there’s a friendship there, yet, Miss Wrangler.” The way he leans into his charming southern phrasing coaxes a smile out of her.

“I call bullshit, but I’ll let it go because you sound so sweet saying it.”

He smiles that big smile again. “Alright, we’ll see you out there. Try to keep up.” He leaves her standing there, saluting as he goes.

Through the window, she can see him stop next to Scott, beginning a discussion over their clipboards. From somewhere behind the glass, her stomach flutters just seeing him there, feeling more nervous than bothered for the first time that morning—and ridiculous for even reading into the feeling, for allowing herself to even consider him that way.

She takes a deep breath, trying to shake the thoughts, then shoves the receipt into her pocket and heads for the door.

₊⊹

Even when storms don't pan out, her duties aren't put to rest. B-Roll, shots of the crew, updating the Wranglers' website; they're all perks of the job, even on the sunniest days. Whatever Lily can't capture in the sky, it's Ally's job to document it on the ground.

Not that the lot of them make that easy. After the fourth frame is ruined by one person or another blinking or turning around or walking off, her patience is translucent.

"We're not gonna have a cover photo, guys!" The wind carries her voice away before it can reach the group several feet away.

"Use a candid! It's more authentic!" Dani hollers as Boone dips out again. They're all turned around in some way before the words even make it across the gap.

Ally takes a deep breath, letting the strap catch her camera as she drops it. "Fine," she says low enough that the rest of them barely hear.

They all filter out, moving on to drones and fireworks and perching on top of cars to break for lunch.

Boring blog post for a boring day.

Not that the aesthetics of their website are a particularly pressing issue, but the being blown-off thing is fostering something of an itch under her collar. She takes it out on her camera gear, shoving it into the back of her car. His footsteps get lost in the rustling of nylon bags and car doors.

"What bit you in the ass today?" Someone says from right behind her.

"Jesus Christ, Tyler. You scared the shit out of me," she shoves at his shoulder, stepping out from the corner he has her in.

"Alright, care to explain this mood you're in, Benni?"

She looks up at him through her brow. She hates that nickname. But the stern disappointed look in his eye takes her down a notch. She looks away, head lulling back just to dodge the scrutiny for a moment.

She finally lands back on him. "No. You're right, sorry. Just tired." She punctuates it with a non-smile.

His hands are perched on his hips skeptically. "You sure it doesn't have anything to do with that Storm Par run-in this morning."

She tries not to look too caught in the headlights. The fact that her desperation had such obvious repercussions stops her dead in her tracks, though.

He doesn't have to know that 'run-in' was by design.

After too long of a pause, she pulls the most guilty smile she can muster, "Shit. You saw that?"

He smiles, satisfied that he's cracked her so quickly. A brotherly hand falls over her shoulder, "Big windows," he smiles like he finds himself clever, then continues, "Listen, you can't let them get to you. They piss all of us off, but it's better to ignore them. Focus on what we're doing, don't let Scott and Javi get under your skin."

She pats his hand, "I know, I know. Guess they just caught me in the wrong mood. Sorry. I'm over it—I swear." She smiles again, lending a sullen edge to it.

"That's alright, that's alright." He squeezes twice then turns to depart, "We're out in fifteen."

She nods, seeing him off.

Shit.

₊⊹

By the time the end of the day rolls around, the idea of sharing a room gnaws at Ally’s short-circuiting brain. She loves her teammates, really, but there’s always some part of her that just wants to disappear for a while after hours in the car or dirty rest stops or dusty parking lots.

And, midway through her second loop around this rural Nebraska service station’s liquor aisle, her wish is granted. Just as she’s settling on the highest quality wine she can find (a pink little watermelon number), Dani appears with Funyuns and nacho cheese dip in hand.

“Right, ready when you are,” she says, muffled by one of the chips she’s apparently already broken into.

Ally nods, grabbing a second bottle of the wine, “Great. I got drinks.”

When Dani cringes at the atomically pink beverages, Ally gives a pointed once over to her food choice. With a nod, they decide to not drag the issue any further.

When they’re rolling up to the motel du jour, the group almost instantly breaks into room assignments, ready to call it a night.

Ally and Dani’s room is situated at the far end of the second floor, garnished with two full beds and a TV so aged it sticks out three feet into the room despite being pressed flush to the wall.

Dani calls dibs on the first shower, which leaves Ally to channel surf. Deciding to shower in the morning, she safely stows the wine in the groaning mini fridge and changes into shorts and the baggiest shirt she has, just wanting to get away from the stickiness of everything in this heat.

So begins her next mission: getting just tipsy enough to sleep. She flicks through the four offered channels, landing on a butchered, cut-for-television version of Showgirls, and snatches one of the bottles, breaking the seal on its screw top.

Dani reemerges around three swigs in, practically crashing on the other bed. They chat for a bit, offering each other their respective goods and then denying them. But soon enough, intermittent snores interrupt the TV and Dani is fast asleep, Funyun bag propped up next to her.

The screen goes black with the click of a button, leaving Ally in the dark, lit only by a stream of light shining in from the parking lot outside. She screws the cap back on, replacing the wine in the fridge then crawls into her bed, clenching her eyes like it’ll somehow transport her to tomorrow morning.

The sheets are sticking to her and despite her better knowledge, her brain keeps telling her she’s spinning, levitating above the bed.

She didn’t even drink that much.

Somewhere to her right, Dani is fast asleep—and her nonsensical dream-babbling is doing a phenomenal job at letting that be known. Some chemical reaction is stirring all the elements in the room into one quaking pain in Ally’s head. No amount of tossing and turning can drive it away.

The next time she checks the clock, one has turned to two and her mind hasn’t settled one bit. The room is quiet and cloud, too much all at once. A sudden shuffle from Dani’s sheets has her heckles raising, irrationally sending her over the edge. She snatches up her slouching, fabric excuse of a purse on her way to the mini fridge, then stumbles into her slippers, making a mad dash for the balcony door. 

When she’s finally outside, door shut carefully behind her, the relief comes out in a sigh. It’s significantly cooler, but the alcove of the deck keeps the wind out and temperature comfortable. She plops into the lone wicker chair, dropping her purse on the glass-topped table next to it. She holds the wine.

It’s only then she notices it’s the unopened bottle, grabbed in her haste. She shrugs, popping the seal anyway. She takes a pull, tasting the chemical sweetness of it.

With her feet propped up on the wall that acts as the balcony’s railing, her view is clipped, offering little more than the star-sprinkled night sky. It’s peaceful, unimpeded by light and noise at the back of the motel.

So she sits, basking in the cool and the quiet, sneaking syrupy sips here and there, staring out to nothing in particular. At some point, when her head’s gone a bit buzzy, a familiar urge prods at the back of her mind, and she figures her inhibitions are gone enough to indulge.

Just as she lands on the lighter she’s rummaging for in the bottom of her bag, a dull rolling sound tears her attention away. The cigarette dangling from her bottom lip barely survives her head whipping toward the neighboring deck. Maybe it’s her slowed motor skills, but she doesn’t bother to look away from the figure emerging from the next room.

Just as her eyes begin to focus on them in the darkness, the stranger speaks.“Sorry, I didn’t know you were out here.”

The familiarity strikes her as odd at first, but then the baritone of Scott’s voice vibrating in her chest jogs her realization.

She waits a few beats too long and his shadow is already turning to retreat before she can form words. When they do come, they’re slow and muffled by the still unlit cigarette, encouraged by her slipping common sense. “No, no, ’s fine.”

Despite the last couple days, despite his dismissiveness, she wouldn't mind him staying. Self-loathing develops with the realization.

Everything remains still for a moment, but no protest is made.

She turns back, sparking the lighter, sheltering its flame as it singes the paper between her lips. His door latch clicks and for a moment her heart seems to pause in her chest. Then she hears the rustle of his movements as he approaches the dividing wall between them.

She exhales.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

With her heart resuming, faster now, she fixates on the orange glow, rolling the cigarette in her fingers. “Oh,” she says like she’s just noticed it herself, “Yeah, occasionally—when I’m stressed. Or alone.” She puffs again, “And socially.”

She still can’t quite make him out, but she thinks he nods. “And what’s that?” He (probably) points to the bottle in her lap.

She holds it up, “Oh that is a delicacy of this fine state. Wendy’s Watermelon Wonder Fruit Wine.” She juts the bottle up toward him, stretching awkwardly to make the offer.

“Jesus, and you’re drinking that?” But despite his judgement, she feels the bottle lift out of her hand.

She smiles. “The letters are in cursive, it’s fancy—the Pump’N’Pantry’s finest.” She traces swoopy letters in the air, the end of her cigarette setting them alight.

He pauses. “You don’t have a cup?”

“I wasn’t expecting company.”

She can picture the disgust on his face.

Then she can hear the tight inhale and the slosh of the bottle, she imagine his face wincing. “That tastes like Fruit Loops and battery acid.”

“Works like a charm,” she tosses back.

“It would seem so,” he says, noting her looser-than-normal inflection.

She doesn’t bother punching back, just takes another drag. He takes a pull, too.

He holds the bottle back out to her and asks in a pinched voice, “You make a habit of drinking alone at three o’clock in the morning?”

She frowns, “You make a habit of judging peoples’ life choices?”

He defends himself quickly, “I’m not judging—just wondering.”

“You’re always judging.” Swig.

She stares ahead, looking at the stars over the toe of her boots, nursing the wine in one hand and flicking ash from the other.

To her right, Scott is quiet for several beats. Somewhere in her clouding thoughts, she wishes she could take that last bit back. It was somehow earnest and insulting—and she’s not sure which is worse. And despite everything that’s happened, or not happened, rather, the guilt of it is a pit in her stomach. She takes another drink.

But then he’s shuffling back toward his door and she asks in spite of herself, “Where are you going?”

His voice is lost a bit as he moves away from her, but she makes out something like ‘can’t see’ and then he’s back in the room.

Her heart plummets. And it’s definitely just the alcohol making her loopy, and flushing her face, and making the sudden silence cavernous—

Except there’s a click and soft light suddenly spills out onto the porch. The illumination is akin to the leap in her chest when he steps back out.

“That’s better.” She can see his face now, the way his eyes look surprisingly soft and the usually hard line of his lips is lax.

She’s thankful he opted for the subtle light of his room’s bedside lamp than the prison-grade box light fixed above the exterior doorway. Especially because she’s sure his face is the same shade as the Watermelon Wonder right about now.

Still, she takes a good look at him. He's tan against the bright white of his t-shirt and she catches a glimpse of blue plaid pajama pants before he’s sidled up to the half-wall again. Her favorite part of the view are his curls, free from the constraints of his cap, so dark brown they look black in this light. When he folds his arms over the wall again, leaning, they spill over his forehead. As her eyes follow their cascading pattern, they land something else: him, smug and looking right back at her.

“We’ve gotta do something about this staring problem of yours.”

Her cheeks have a pulse.

Then his gaze fans over the length of her.

She stifles a disbelieving giggle, “Huh, Ditto!”

When he speaks again, it’s punctuated by the first whisperings of a smirk.

“Me? No, I was just taking note of your,” he points to her feet, “Uggs. I didn’t even know they still made those.”

She drops her jaw, genuinely a bit offended, “Ok, the fact that you can name them is far more embarrassing than my wearing them.”

He quirks his head and pouts like he’s weighing that statement, then he shakes his head. It’s definitely not.

She continues, “Your daily eyewear is so, completely nineteen-eighty-six, I can’t believe you’d even think to make fun of my Uggs.” She shakes her head, taking another drag.

He’s still perched on the wall, looking half-dazed, almost-smiling like he’s trying not to read too much into the comment on his aviators.

He reaches out, surprising her, “I’m gonna need more of that if we’re gonna keep having this conversation.”

She shoves it toward him, “Hell yeah. You need to catch up.” And she doesn't know why she's prodding him on, why she's not as peeved at him as she should be, but the alcohol isn't the only warmth blooming in her chest.

As he presses the bottle to his lips, he mumbles, “I don’t think that’s possible."

By the time the bottle is drained, Ally’s put her fifth-grade gymnastics skills to use and swung over the separating wall, settling next to Scott, who’s unrecognizable in form beside her.

She started rationing her sips half the bottle ago and he pretended not to notice, happy to drink more than his share.

Now, chairs touching at every possible point, they’re sharing their second cigarette (a horrible habit, they agree [he’d kicked it in college], but one every now and then can’t hurt), slurring just enough to understand each other perfectly.

“That’s bullshit,” he says through a laugh and a filter between his lips.

It’s the sixth laugh he’s let slip—she’s counted. And even though he plays those close to his chest, his drunk persona boasts an almost fixed smile. It’s not the full-out kind, just like his laughs aren’t, but more a crooked, half-cocked thing that hangs there like it’s by default, decorated in dazzling white. Even several shared vices into the night, she’s captivated by it, finding it perfect on his face.

She realizes she’s supposed to answer, "I'm serious—I am the you of the Wranglers, but with wit and a charming personality."

He rolls his eyes, she lifts a warning brow.

"Listen," she continues, "I'm more...straight-edge than a lot of them. We all love each other, don't get me wrong, but I'm just here because Tyler did me a favor."

There's a silence and Scott seems to think better of unpacking her words, at least for the time being.

"Well, I don't think that's true." She can hear the amusement in his voice as he continues, "People don't cower in fear as you walk by."

"The sane ones do."

He smiles a bit at that, then looks down, letting the moment lull again. Looking at him there, arms crossed over his chest, slouched in his chair a bit, staring far off to nothing, she feels just drunk enough to say something she can pretend not to remember later.

"I'm surprised you're actually out here." And when he lifts his head, looking confused, "Y'know. Speaking to me." It comes out more grating than she intended, less like she's poking fun and more like she's picking a fight.

His brows pull together, waiting for her to elaborate.

"I dunno, kinda thought we were making some leeway the other night."

Suddenly, he looks a bit more annoyed than confused. With a 'hmph', "Yeah, me too."

It's her turn to quirk a brow. "What does that mean?" She 'hmphs' back defensively.

"I mean, you let the hillbilly brigade run me off then glared at me across the room for the next four days."

She narrows her eyes, leaning forward a bit, not sure she's hearing his dense retelling correctly. When his lips set tightly together, she realizes she is. Then something else occurs to her.

"So you're mad about the pool? That's why you haven't so much as grunted at me the past few days?"

He looks almost offended. "What? No, I'm not mad about the pool. I'm not six years old."

She hums, unconvinced, "Really, because it seems like you're mad about the pool."

His voice climbs, "I'm not mad about—" he cuts himself off, "Why are you mad about me not talking to you? Since when have you ever been interested in being friends."

Her mind flashes to the previous night's episode. She swallows the thought down.

"Let's not be dramatic, I don't expect your friendship. Not bitching at each other might be nice, though."

Now he seems unmoved. "Really? Over the past three years, I've gathered you enjoy bitching at me."

She sucks her teeth, "Hey, you bitch back."

He holds up a surrendering hand, looking away for a moment. Then, letting his head roll back toward her, eyes glinting, he says, "Yeah, I do."

For a moment, their eyes lock, and all defensiveness leaches out of the moment. Maybe it's just the buzz doing its job, but something flutters in her chest, and she has to break his gaze just to settle it a bit.

"Yeah, well if you ever want the pleasure," she flicks her eyes back to him just briefly, "of my bitching again, you're gonna have to resign yourself to speaking to me."

He looks up, mulling it over, then settles back on her. "Is that a promise?"

She tilts her head, amused. Biting it back, she holds a hand out.

Shake on it.

He looks at it there, waiting for him, as if considering it. Then his eyes flit up to her, softer now. "You didn't say anything, either." He sounds small, somehow more honest than he ever has even without revealing anything particularly damning.

Something compels her to reciprocate it, her hand still lingering there in some limbo of conversation. "I didn't know you wanted me to."

Almost immediately, he returns, "I wanted you to."

Her breath evades her for a moment and all she can really manage in response is a nod, slight. He doesn't laugh, or make some snide remark. He doesn't look away.

Instead, he takes her offered hand.

You rolled your eyes, a grin sneaking onto your face.

“Uhuh. Did you get all the cake out?”

He tilted his head towards you in response, and you mussed his hair, ruffling it. You still weren’t sure how you’d overshot the cake so far from his mouth that you managed to get it into his hair during the reception, but Tyler hadn’t objected.

Not when it meant he got to do it right back to you.

“I see you’re still sporting raspberry buttercream yourself,” he said, reaching across the distance to pick a fragment of icing out of the hair closest to your face.

The space in the room vanished… until a smug grin spread across his face.

“You tryin’ to seduce me, sweetheart?”

You scoffed playfully, pulling out of his reach.

“Har har. Why would I? When I–” you placed a hand squarely on the front of your chest, mischief rising up on your face, “Already have you wrapped around my little finger.”

You twirled your hand in the tornado wrangler’s signature motion.

Tyler barked out a laugh, eyes crinkling in the way you loved so much. When he returned his focus to you, he was shaking his head, smile bright against his evening stubble. “You really are something else, you know that?”

You hummed. “I’ve been told as much.”

“Well, good.” Tyler closed the distance between you before you could blink, arms wrapping around you in a firm, secure grip and tugging you close. Heat washed into your cheeks, down your neck. His eyes stared into your soul, softly, gently tugging on threads to see where each one weaved. His next words were low, sending your head spinning and a buzz coursing through your veins. “I wouldn’t want you to forget it.”

The breath in your lungs vaporized.

Your lips crashed together.

Desperate, hungry, you let him pull you even closer, flush against his damp skin, leaning you back against the bathroom door. His hands roamed up the sides of your dress, fire lighting in their path, until…

“Ow!” You broke the kiss.

Surprise. Confusion. Concern. All passed across Tyler’s face in a single heartbeat. His hands raised from your body, hovering, but no longer touching.

“Baby? Are–are you alright?”

Slow shock morphed into realisation.

Of course… A giggle rose to your lips. Then a laugh. Of course this would happen.

Tyler’s brows drew together, utter confusion etched onto every feature of his face except for a faint, bemused smile touching his lips.

“You, uh, you mind filling me in on what’s so funny?”

“It’s nothing, Tyler. It’s just–” Another laugh interrupted your explanation. “I just forgot about something, is all.”

Tyler’s brow raised dramatically as you leaned over, untucked a fold in your dress, and pulled out a pin. Then two… then five.

You set them on the edge of the bathroom sink and smiled sheepishly. “You, uh, you wanna know why I was late to the altar?”

Tyler’s eyes searched yours.

You released the fold of fabric, revealing the dark brown coffee stain smeared like poorly prepared tie-dye over the front of your skirt.

Tyler’s lips twitched, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Is that–”

“Yes,” you muttered begrudgingly, holding a hand up in front of his face. “And I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

His eyes crinkled, mouth twisting and contorting awkwardly to prevent a smile.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You huffed, trying and failing to keep your own smile at bay.

Tyler broke into a grin, lowering his lips to yours. Your heart fluttered and melted in your chest. Sweet, like raspberry buttercream and coffee stains.

Tonight's motel of choice is a two-story, white oasis sat oddly off a desolate state route. Its wood siding took the day's storm in stride, showing little more than a few pits out of its ancient paint on the easternmost side of it.

Hours earlier, the skies twisted violently, harsh winds scraping the topsoil loose from a few acres outside of a small Oklahoma town, though it unraveled itself into more of a dust storm than a cyclone. In some sense it had been a disappointment; in others, it was a respite from the battering summer outbreaks wrought on rural areas like this.

Amongst the wreckage, two sweat-laced, freshly scraped-up bodies weave carefully through the shantytown, tossing flippant greetings at dozens of their closest friends. One in front of the other, the former tugging her exasperated friend behind her by her hand, on a mission.

"Ally!" Lily chirps as her boot catches on a parking block she doesn't have time to dodge in her friend's heat-driven haste.

Ally throws something like an apology over her shoulder, still striding intently.

Separated from the festivities by a sagging picket fence, the motel’s pool made it out mostly unscathed. Squared off from the noise and lights, it’s an oasis amongst the prevailing conditions.

Padding over squelching grass away from the crowd, she’s peeling off her flannel, hurling justifications at Lily as she shoves past the gate. Her back is still turned to the pool as she twirls back around to plead her case, discarding layers onto one of the crooked pool chairs.

“Come on,” Ally begs, “It’s like a hundred degrees out and Tyler’s on his third monologue.”

She’s pulling at Lily’s wrist, barefoot and childish. More than unconvinced, Lily’s glower has drifted away entirely, locked firmly somewhere beyond Ally’s shoulder.

Annoyed and still grasping at Lily’s hand, she turns to follow her eye line. In the farthest reaches of the fence’s perimeter, on a cracked plastic lounge chair pushed flush against the wood of it, is a partially-silhouetted baseball cap and collared shirt.

Half-illuminated by the singular overhead light, his focus is staunchly fixed on the phone in his lap, though the tension in his posture suggests he’s acutely aware of their presence. He’s perched on the chair, back stuck all the way up and legs outstretched in front of him, crossed unnaturally. He’s hunched in it like he’s making a physical effort to contain his limbs.

A laugh blooms in her chest, her ribs vibrating a bit as she stifles it.

“Hell no,” Lily’s annoyed tone pulls her back from her bewildered state of observation.

Turning back to face her, desperation and irritation weighing heavy on her chest, she grabs Lily’s other hand, holding it close to her heart.

“Oh, god, Lil. Come on, he ignores us when we’re speaking directly to his face. He won’t care.”

“Fuck if he cares. I care.”

“Lily!” She takes a breath then pulls her face straight, fixing her brows seriously, looking through them and up at her friend, “You can have my next three rounds for singles.”

Her arms relax in Ally’s grip briefly; getting three extra nights in her own room isn’t something to scoff at, especially during such a busy season. Ally cocks her head, noting her consideration.

The moment goes as quickly as it came.

“Yeah, no shot.”

Throwing her head back, she drops Lily’s hands, huffing with exasperation. Her back is growing stickier, her patience wearing thinner.

“Jesus,” she mumbles lowly, turning back again, “Hey, Good Will Hunting!” She calls across the pool.

His shoulders dip in a sigh and his jaw clenches a bit as he summons the patience to acknowledge her. He hazards an unimpressed glance, eyebrows raised and lips almost pursed, waiting.

She’s taken aback for a beat by how disturbingly human he looks unobstructed by his usual dark lenses.

She recovers quickly, pulling the widest pseudo-grin she can muster, “You mind some company?” She waves vaguely to the pool.

He blinks twice, slowly, letting her bathe in the pause, then pulls that tight, close-lipped smile, matching her hand gesture.

Be my guest.

His face reverts just as quickly and he drops his gaze back to his phone. An eye roll personified.

Her own grin falls, jaw ticking a bit. Taking a breath, she turns back to Lily, hopeful.

Looking disgusted and entirely unmoved, she has to flutter her eyes a bit before she can bring her focus back to Ally.

She lets a heavy hand fall on her shoulder, leveling with her, “Ally, babe, I love you. But no way in hell.”

She deflates, knowing she’s lost. She nods, hands settling on her hips as she lets the weighty atmosphere drape over her for another few moments. Then, feeling too hot and miserable to bail, she picks up where she left off: pulling her phone out of her pocket and tossing it on her piling clothes and yanking at the stuffy denim of her shorts.

Lily looks her up and down, “Oh. Oh, wow. Ok, just goin’ for it.”

Ally glances up from her slightly bent position, nodding vigorously as she pulls the shorts over her ankles, “Mhm. Yep.”

“You want me to, like, stay?” Lily asks in a way that lets her know she really doesn’t want to, like, stay.

She straightens up, tossing the cloth onto the chair, “No, no. Be free, honeybee.”

Lily gives her another once-over, apparently surprised that her friend and usually serious colleague is desperate enough to be tank top and boyshort clad in front of The Enemy.

Sensing this, Ally gives her shoulder a squeeze, “Really, I’m good. Promise.”

Lily raises a hand in surrender, starting to back away, “Alright.”

“Kisses,” she calls out as Lily retreats.

She throws a peace sign back as she slogs back to the caravan, shouting back, “I’ll work on Boone!”

“You better!” Ally calls back.

Letting her hands go to work dismantling her wind-whipped mess of hair, she turns back toward the pool stairs. She stops short when she meets Collared Shirt’s gaze, eyes suddenly cast toward her. They widen ever so slightly before he blinks the minor panic away, snapping his head back down. Her complete inability to decipher the look in them keeps her frozen in place for a second or two. It’s one of the first times she’s seen him waver. It makes her nervous as hell. Sure, she’s caught snippets of his bickering with Javi or seen his resolve falter a bit battling the crowds of tourists. She even likes to think she’s really pissed him off a few times on the road, though he never betrays much. But catching his eye like that, seeing him look so caught, puts her off a bit.

She steps farther into the leaf-littered pool, trying to shake it off, but she stops again, guilty that she hijacked his obvious attempt at solitude.

He’s all the way over here for a reason. Damnit.

Bracing herself, she forces out, “Hey, I can leave if you want,” then, feeling a bit too gracious, “I didn’t realize you were having Scott Time.”

Shoulders sag. Jaw clenches. Fingers scroll on.

“Not engaging.”

“What?! I’m being friendly.”

“Not. Engaging.”

“Alright,” she continues her descent, decreasingly willing to leave as the cool water creeps up her legs, “if you insist.”

He sighs loudly.

She smiles to herself, sinking fully into the shallow end.

Even with a few inches sloshed out of the storm-churned water, it’s a reprieve from the dense Oklahoma night. The chlorine burns her nose, sneaking past her eyelashes when she dips to the bottom of the pool, letting it lift the heat off her.

For a few minutes, she floats around the corner opposite him, trying to maximize the distance between them and give him some space. She lets her eyes wander to the star-dusted sky, listening to obnoxious music float over the fence, disturbing their quiet. It’s a concerted effort not to acknowledge each other, keeping to themselves as they coexist. Even so, the awkwardness leeches in, a byproduct of being undeniably in each other’s presence. She hopes that she’s reading his scrunched posture correctly, not reading between non-existent lines. A chill creeps under her skin at just how much thought she's putting into this.

Any time now, Boone.

Feeling uncomfortable in the avoidance, she postures herself so she’s facing him again, settling completely into the corner, using her arms to push the water around in front of her. Finally, she lets her eyes settle on him, analyzing.

He’s still staring intently at his screen, scrolling every few seconds. One arm is crossed over his chest, resting on the one holding his phone. He hasn’t adjusted much, still looking like an action figure bent the wrong way. His usually tidy hair poofs out in a few unruly curls under his cap. She can see where his jaw is flexed, his lips set tight; a telltale sign he’s nowhere near as unaware as their shared silence would lead her to believe. What piques her interest most, though, are his eyes, cast low, flicking over the screen with each scroll.

They’re nice.

Ew.

The sudden sound of his voice rips the thought from her mind.

“You’re staring.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. Why.”

He manages to make a question sound like a statement in a way only he can.

She hums, “I don’t know if I’d really call it ‘staring’.”

Quiet. Scroll. Deep breath.

“There’s a reason all of you get along the way you do.”

She half-scoffs, trying to smother her laugh. He tends to err on the side of an offhand, stealthy snide remark, rarely anything so to the point. 

On the right day, after the right chain of events, such a comment would elicit a string of get-him-backs and heated exchanges, but there’s no heart to her bickering now. She feels smiley and light, finally relaxed after a long day and uninterested in putting her back into any kind of real fight.

Pestering suits her fine.

“Well, they’ve all abandoned me now.”

“I don’t know, seemed like you had the drone one pretty convinced.”

The drone one. Ass.

“Aw, so you were listening,” she teases.

He pauses at that and she can see the muscles in his neck tense slightly, “You guys aren’t exactly subtle. My fault for expecting any semblance of social grace from Arkansas' finest.”

That one pokes at her chest a bit, but she rolls over it.

“I thought you’d be in your room for the night.”

“Hot.”

She nods, understanding, “Man of many words.”

“You got the point, right?”

She quirks a brow, amused, “You know, you’re funny when you try, Miller.”

He finally looks up at the sound of his name.

“I wasn’t trying.”

“Well I guess that’s your charm.”

That earns her another bemused slow-blink. She smiles in a bless your heart kind of way and then pushes away from the wall toward his side of the pool.

He manages to sit up even straighter, anticipating her approach, and finally clicks his phone off, laying it on its face next to his leg.

“Easy, there. I don’t bite.” His eyes roll again and she takes it as her cue to keep going, “I really like this situation,” she traces her finger slowly through the air, circling him and the chair.

He looks down, poring over his own extremities like he’s registering them for the very first time. The way he doesn’t shoot something back immediately thrills her, like she’s earned a little badge that says ‘gotcha’ pinned to her lapel. She folds her arms over themselves on the pool’s edge, resting her chin atop them, watching him swing his legs over the chaise into a more normal sitting position.

“Ok,” he protests, tone louder than before, “there weren’t any normal chairs. And I didn’t know I was going to be publicly scrutinized.”

“No, no. I mean, I get it. You looked so...at ease.”

He shoves his tongue into his cheek, shaking his head. He almost breaks.

Almost.

The moment lulls and they fidget; him leaning onto his knees, her legs fluttering beneath her in the water. They’re both staring far off, not quite meeting each other’s eyes. As the air devolves back into silence, he thumbs at his phone case.

“What were you reading earlier?”

Talk about grasping at straws.

He looks up, seeming not entirely annoyed to be continuing the conversation. He clears his throat, looking down at the phone briefly then back at her, “Wasn’t. Just going over the numbers from earlier. It was an EF Nothing; the reports are a mess.”

He says it awkwardly—like he’s not quite convinced of it himself—and even though she could probably poke holes in it, she doesn’t.

“Hmm,” the sound vibrates through her lips, “very Will Hunting of you.”

He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes incredulously, “Why do you keep saying that to me?”

She dips her head like it’s obvious, “Math guy. MIT.”

That’s it.

“Harvard.”

“Definitely not,” she enunciates.

“That’s like the whole thing; they find him at Harvard.”

“No. That’s Minnie Driver’s gig.”

He squints again, still not sure she’s right, but moves on anyway.

“So you’ve been calling me a genius?” He asks, looking down at her.

She takes a pause.

“No,” she muses, “I think I’ve been calling you an asshole.”

She scoffs out a laugh, surprised at herself. He reacts at the same time, eyebrows shooting up and face slackening, a huff resembling amusement escaping him. She holds her fingers to her lips, muting her laugh and he shakes his head, conceding.

When the air settles again and quiet washes over them, she’s too aware of the sound of her own heart beating. It’s heavy, thumping against her rib cage. And when she looks up at him, she lingers just a little too long, suddenly interested in the contours of his face, and the way his hair lays, and his lips—And.

And her chest flutters, like sweeping butterfly wings are sending shockwaves through it. She has to suck in a deep breath just to snap herself out of it. But as she tries to shake the thoughts away, she swears his eyes look a little brighter, a little more focused on her.

And maybe she wouldn’t mind.

Except, she does. Mind. Because everyone minds.

He’s an ass and a little too morally ambiguous and rude and takes up too much space in a field he doesn’t really care about.

He interrupts her berating stream of consciousness with a sudden movement.

He shifts a bit, distributing his weight onto his other knee, leaning a bit farther. He hesitates for a moment, looking away, thinking. Then, clearing his throat, he meets her gaze, locking eyes. 

Glad to be rid of her sudden spell of desperation, she meets him with a challenging stare, daring him to speak first. The moments tick by, punctuated by chirps from the occasional odd insect, the pool projecting a blue mirage across his stern features.

He looks her over a few times and lets his eyes pay close attention one feature at a time. She feels hot under his consideration, the tops of her cheeks most likely betraying her. Nervous is the last thing she wants to feel in his presence, but she can’t help it this time. When they’re around everyone, protected by the agreement of some false turf war, it’s easy to write him off, to trade insults without much mind. But here—alone—it doesn’t come as easily.

She blinks just to break his gaze, but it persists. Finally, she sucks her teeth, readjusting purposefully. He leans back at that, starting to straighten up again but still focusing on her.

Say something.

He’s careful in his movements outside the dictatorial role he likes to assume on the road.

Of course, she would never pay enough attention to him to notice something like that. Obviously.

Obviously.

But she does notice. And even as she scolds herself for keeping field notes on the man single-handedly responsible for keeping aviators and headsets relevant, she’s intrigued.

It makes her stomach twist.

Needing to claw herself out of the pit her stomach is devolving into, she concedes.

“You’re staring.”

“Am I?”

Red settles deeper into her cheeks.

It royally pisses her off that he’s somehow melting her eternally fucking cool facade.

“Not engaging.”

He rolls his eyes in a way that makes her think he doesn’t quite mean it, moving to make a rebuttal.

Before he can, the sound of the gate latch shatters their middle ground, yanking their focus toward it. Followed by a series of hoots and thudding feet, the fence bursts open, Boone leading a trail of five or six strangers filing into the area.

“Ally Cat!” 

He careens toward them as he lets out an accented screech.

Saved by the bell.

Scott shoots up, righting himself on the chair’s end, eyes trained on the encroaching chaos. There’s a pang somewhere in her chest at the interruption but she recovers quickly.

“Boonedocks!”

She pushes away from the wall, wading closer to where he’s standing.

There’s a sudden crash of cannonballs hitting the water behind her and through the commotion she can see Scott physically retreating into himself.

“Heard from Lily you were sequestered with the automaton,” he gives Scott a pointed glare.

She laughs at the way the words sound molded by his inflection.

Scott grinds the right side of his mouth as though mocking his own gum-chewing habit, “Just babysitting.”

That’s a wrap.

Trying not to feel too disappointed, or at least not show it, she tries a sarcastic, “I was just letting Shades here admire me.”

She scrunches her nose a bit at how it comes out, curated and cumbersome on her tongue. Boone doesn’t seem to notice or care, continuing right on.

“I wouldn’t give him the honor, Ally Cat.”

Scott scoffs at that, picking up his phone and standing to leave.

“That’s right,” Boone yaps, barking like a small-breed dog protected by a wire fence.

Ally can’t help but watch as Scott makes his exit, measuring it in swift strides away from her.

Just one look.

Of course, it would be fine if he didn’t. It’s not like she wants him to, it would just be nice to get the final victory of the night. Obviously.

But then he’s reaching for the gate and there’s a sudden jump in her throat.

“Leaving so soon, Storm Par?” It comes out loud so she’s sure he can hear it over the racket.

He steps out beyond the pool’s perimeter, latching the gate. Then, when she’s just about ready to regret her last attempt at a volley, he peers back over the fence at her.

“Don’t miss me too much.”

A thrum rushes down her spine, sending vibrations through her ribs down to her toes. She hopes the smile she can feel forming isn’t apparent enough for anyone else to read it.

She shakes her head, palming at her face trying to redistribute the flutters in her chest.

Luckily, Boone doesn’t let her bask in it too long, mumbling something like a Thank god as Scott disappears from view and then catapulting himself over her and into the water.

She screeches, turning to join the pandemonium.

Turning to distract herself from—

From.

And eventually she’s lost in the revelry, splashing water at Boone and avoiding ill-advised dives.

But as the air turns balmy rather than blazing and the crowd starts to settle, something draws her attention back toward the pitted white siding of the motel. The roof is sagging a bit. Its bright blue doors contrast against gold numbers behind wrought iron railings. And as she combs over them, and studies the flickering neon sign, noting the orange No Vacancy flickering just below it, something else intrudes on the darkness.

At the end of the long row of windows, perched on the second story, is a warm yellow oozing into the night sky, obstructed only by a looming figure. Blinking, adjusting to the starkness of it, she can just make him out, hat discarded and hands working the buttons of his shirt to reveal a black tee underneath.

Looking down at her.

Well, looking down. Generally. Where she happens to be. When she squints, though, she swears can see the way his eyes focus, narrowing in on the only spot of calm amongst the chaos. Maybe the quickening in her chest begs it to be true, too.

She stares back with bated breath. And as he reaches the last button, letting the shirt fall open, he nods ever so slightly. An acknowledgement.

I see you.

She returns it.

As quickly as she notices him there, the light is suddenly gone, snuffed out by quickly drawn blinds.