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DAY TWENTY-SEVEN // SPITTING - 𝑭𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑺𝒄𝒐𝒕𝒕 𝑴𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓
cw: 18+, smut, motel sex, they get nassstyyyy, spitting, douchebag!scott what's new, dirty talk, crass!reader, slight slapping, rough!sex
The motel's signage buzzes at an annoying intensity — dying insects plastered to the sides, most of them burnt to a crisp. Some that were dumb enough to remain dangerously close to bare static bulbs, awaiting imminent death.
Scott's legs bounce erratically, folded palms resting on his lap, observing the mind-numbing mundanity. That was what Scott had been up to in the forty-seven minutes he was made to wait at the lobby for supposed 'housekeeping.'
Yeah right. As if there was housekeeping where the bubonic plague probably lingered still. He was pretty sure the sleaze behind the counters from earlier was scraping cadavers off his room floors right about now.
Being stuck in this backwater rural town wasn't ideal. But he'd made the executive decision to go ahead of StormPAR when his sensors had picked up abnormal readings. The barometric dips were strange — and enough to get him out here alone.
"Goddamn Doug…"
Across the dirtied linoleum sat an ice machine — another source of his entertainment so far. It hacked and coughed every six minutes, spitting out what was surely ice from a questionable water source. In the forty-ninth minute, he sees someone.
Out of place, way too put-together, who didn't belong to a motel at the side of a highway. You balanced a silver bucket in your arms, the other, rustling with the ice scoop. He was undoubtedly judging you for your trust in said machine, but that wasn't what intrigued him, no.
It was a slow progression to get to see the stranger, catching flickers of your features, he was straining to piece together.
You turned to look over your shoulder when you felt a stare, only briefly meeting Scott's gaze and returned to your task.
A hairy pot-belly rudely interrupts Scott's leering. He draws back with a scowl to Doug, who dangles a key-card, bound with dried-up sticker-residue.
"About time," Scott sighs, looking past Doug, only to see that you were now gone, dejection filling his chest.
He grabs his key from the man, digging up a dollar & a twenty-dollar bill. "This would've been yours," the twenty flutters out of Doug's view, handing him the dollar bill instead.
"…If it were twenty minutes ago." Scott smiles all bright while chewing his gum.
The man shoots him a dirty look, "glad I pissed in yer sheets, cheap fuck."
Scott simply raises an infuriating salute as he walks off with his duffel.
Monitors lit up with readings of software most would stare dumbly at.
Scott's bed was made — not for sleep, but for his gear. An extension cord had cables snaked all over each other in an organised mess, connected to the nearest power outlet, which was definitely a fire hazard.
A headband sat on his head in place of his cap, hair pulled back with the thin black plastic. Scott had been mouthing numbers off to himself like a man possessed for the better half of an hour when three sharp knocks on the rickety doors stole Scott's focus.
He looks toward it, pen between his teeth, "…yeah?"
"Hey," the voice sounds lighter, casual, definitely a woman's, "I'm from next door. Do you mind if I borrow your shower? The one in mine's busted."
Scott exaggeratedly moves his legs over the equipment in one swoop, cracking the door open with a weary frown. It softens in seconds.
The Ice-bucket hottie from earlier.
"…Lucky me huh? Gave me the only working room in this shit-hole." He nudges the door open with his heel. "Knock yourself out."
"Mm. Rude if you asked me." Scott raises his brow at your wit, watching in amusement as you tug the bath towel draped across your chest tighter, "pretty sure Doug had an eyeful of my tits when I went down to ask."
He clears his throat, though hacking was a better word for it — trying not to look exactly where you'd inadvertently drawn attention to. Slick, coated tits with remnants of soap. Jesus fuck. You, on the other hand, seem unbothered by the state of your undress.
His gaze followed the sway of your hips as you walked off.
"…I'd bet."
The sound of the shower running only served to pester Scott's mind. He doesn't mean to act like a perv, but it was hard not to when he technically hadn't gotten laid in almost six months. So the thought of a girl — who, in a cosmic cruel joke, was visually aligned with his ideals — barely a couple of feet away in a bathroom, naked, it wasn't really his choice when his cock twitched in agony beneath his sweats.
Maybe…just until you'd left. He glances down, wearily bringing his thumb over the slight tent forming.
Almost like you'd sensed his more-than-creepy self-soothing habits, Scott snaps his hand away from his crotch, where he was idly palming himself beneath his was to ease the ache.
"Thanks. I really didn't wanna use Doug's bathroom." You announced your presence before even stepping out of the bathroom, giving him too timely grace period to get decent. "Also, I think our other neighbours are filming a porno."
He sniffs loudly, swiping at his nose with the very hand he'd been busy with. "Don't sweat it." Scott has enough conscience not to look at you, but what made him look up in query was the familiar, minty scent you brought with you.
Bergamot & Eucalyptus.
"You — …"
"Oh. Yeah, sorry. I used the fancy-looking thing you had on the counter."
Scott looked speechless. Who just uses someone else's body wash?
"Gel douche," you enunciate with a forced 'fancy' accent, "you don't come by these places often, do you?"
"…And you do?" He can't help the quirk of a smile that creeps up at your brazenness as you approach him with a trail of dripping water. Thankfully, you were much more clothed this time, wearing what he was pretty sure was his motel-issue bathrobe.
"Clearly more than you," you quipped, then nudging your head toward the array of contraptions on the bed. "Ohhhh. You one of those ghost-hunting freaks?"
Scott squints, bouncing his gaze from his equipment and back to you, "are you kidding? Do I look like a paranormal investigator?"
He graduated from MIT, for Christ's sake.
"Yes." You say without hesitation, he shoots you a disgruntled look when you bring the shower wetness to his bed. Equipment bouncing beneath your weight.
"Hey," he warns. Scott scoots over to make space for you, attempting not to let the flutter in his gut go unchecked from the warmth you radiate. "Easy with the bouncing."
He chokes at his own word choice, immediate, explicit thoughts flooding his mind. Be quiet, brain.
"…That's the entirety of my research grant money you're treating like a damn trampoline park."
You raise your brow at that, "grant money. So you're a paid ghoul hunter?" Turning your slipping attention to the devices, tinkering with the switches that sent a flurry of static through his readings."
"For the love of —" Scott groans loudly, "I study hurricane readings." He grabs your wrist in annoyance. "Quit messing with my shit."
"Ow! Watch it." You steady your palm on the sheets, damn near having fallen onto his lap. "What? This triggers a tornado or something?"
Scott seems to notice the excessive force used, promptly letting you go. Back growing stiff at how close you'd gotten. He cleared his throat for what appeared to be the fourth time that night.
"No. Obviously not. I'm not Superman."
You look up at him for a moment, then gesture at him. "Could be. Without the girly headband."
He grunts, flicking the plastic off his head, combing over his hair repeatedly to get rid of the dent. "Has anyone ever told you how tactless you are?"
"What did I do that was so tactless?" you challenge, leisurely leaning back again onto your palms. Feet propped up fully with ankles hooked over one another.
"For one, this", he aggressively points at your position, wincing at the sight of the plush cotton white having been dragged off your inner thighs. Voice only getting higher-pitched and heated, mostly out of projection of his barely contained desires. "Zero self-preservation skills, I could've had bad motives, and you've sauntered right in next to nothing. You're lucky I'm a good guy."
You paused to think for a moment, then shifted forward. Sliding your palms higher up the sheets to bend at his sight. He gulps when the middle of your robe comes slightly undone.
"I don't think so."
Scott blinks, "…pardon?"
"I don't think you're a good guy." You say simply, then lean closer with a sly smile.
His gaze falters at your proximity, discreetly adjusting himself at the twitch of his cock.
"I am." He bites back defensively. "F'not, I wouldn't have been seated still right now even with your painfully obvious motives here."
A pause, then, "I don't pay for sex."
You let out an offended scoff, "ex-fucking-scuse me?"
"I'm not looking down on that sort of thing," he continues, with his palms raised in surrender, "but it's just not my thing."
"Unbelievable. Do I look like a hussy to you?"
Scott tilts his head, then grins at the opportunity to get back at you.
"Yes." He shoots back without missing a beat.
You mirror a disgruntled look, similar to his own from earlier. When it settles that he was likely fucking around.
A huff of air leaves you. "Jerk. So not equal."
Scott folds his arms, surveying your reaction to his accusation, "look, if you aren't, then I'll admit I was wrong. But…you're quite literally throwing yourself at me. What else should I think?"
"You're my type." You point out, still with an edge of annoyance in your tone.
That seems to get him to stop talking for once.
He doesn't stop you when you shift to him, dragging your knuckle up his jaw, then gently prodding at the indent there when he flexes the muscle there in confusion.
"It's cute. These."
Scott unwittingly smiles into the press of your finger. It only served to amuse you even more at how deep it went. "Whoa-hhohh!"
He gently pulls your wrist away from his face, lips twitching with a dorky grin at your coo of amusement. Frankly, he was flattered at the attention. And if he was being really honest? He'd been hard for a while now at your brazen elusion to societal norms.
Only a dead man would remain limp in this situation.
"Fine. I'll bite."
You follow the direction where he guides you at the tug of your wrist — settling snug onto his lap.
"What makes you think I'd even want to after you called me a prostitute?"
Scott grits when you circle your hips teasingly over his bulge that only seemed to twitch harder.
"Fuck and forgive?" He suggests simply with a smile. It's then you catch a glimpse of pink rolling beneath his canines, and he chews on it, with a cocky lop-sided smirk.
You feel your cunt throb in real time, a whole body shudder taking you at the sight of him. Scott's already twisting his hips over to the side to reach out for the drawer, palm resting snug at the divot of your hips. He feels around the drawer until he feels a crinkle, pulling the aluminium square with him.
Scott stops his movements when you push away at his palms, twisting your robe open with your other hand as you lean in. He grunts at the feel of your warm, bare tits against his chest. The cotton pools at your hips, and he readjusts his hold on the small of your bare back.
"You can fuck me raw."
Holy shit.
"Are you fucking with me?" He croaks, a little too desperately.
You pull away with a slow shake of your head, Scott unabashedly looks smitten, looking at you like you were a spike in his readings. "This isn't some…fetish where you're trying to pass people STD's…is it?"
"No, and no." Offence is evident in your voice, but you suppose you would've asked the same thing. "I'm clean. Fuck me with or without, it doesn't matter. But…" You pause and slide your hands up his shoulder, then down to his chest.
"Somethin' tells me….a raw pussy would send you…" He gulps, feeling the drag of your nail stopping right at the waistband of his sweats, emphasising the next few words as your digit traces over the heavily twitching bulge, poking at where the tip might be, "…riiiiight over the edge."
"Fuck." He gasps, head tilted back, when you finally manoeuvre him out of the too-tight pants. Then, his hips jump, at the wet, dribble coating his cock without warning.
Scott groans loudly, "f-fuck." He pants, sliding his palms up your thighs, pushing the entirety of your bathrobe off them.
He winces at the languid pump you offer, slick with your spit over his length. His fingers flex over your ribs, down to the fat in an effort to ground himself from not cumming right then.
"Fffuck baby." His voice is a mere groan, only serving to emphasise just how incredibly painfully tight his balls were growing in anticipation. " Let me fuck er' raw."
You bite down on your lips, thumbing Scott's lips apart. "Are all nerds hopeless virgins like you?"
"What makes you think…I-I'm a virgin." He manages, rubbing absentmindedly down to your knees while you stroke him.
"Your voice is shaking, baby," you mutter with a mocking edge at the term of endearment he'd used just seconds ago.
His lips press taut with the lack of a comeback. Bringing his hands back up to thumb at your clit in defiance. You gasp at that, doubling over and faltering in your movements.
"Well, I'm not. It's just been a while," he counters, "and…you're stupid hot."
You're immediately pleased by the right choice of words, grinning as you lean in to press a peck at the base of his jaw. "Pleased to be the first, then."
The change in position comes quickly, and suddenly — Scott's not too worried about the boat-load of very expensive equipment on his bed. Loud, whiny static is emitted when your feet knock one of the devices off, the heel pressing onto some of the controls.
Scott couldn't have cared less for it, much more focused on the naked girl beneath him, but then you gasp. "Oh no! The grant money."
He rolls his eyes with a cocky grin, chewing tentatively on his gum while hiking your legs around his hips, "you done yet?"
You shake your head, stretching your arms up much like a cat, providing him a tantalising view of the quiver of your hips at the exertion.
"Christ. So fuckin' sexy." He manages, barely.
You lift your head halfway when he leans down hastily, letting him slot his lips with yours. It's a quick shift of mood then — heavy breaths into each other's mouths. Scott doesn't wait to slide his digits knuckle deep with his mouth still on you, rolling his tongue into yours.
The taste of sour green apples isn't registered in your mind when he steadily fucks his digits into you. It's hot, and wet, Scott's barely able to pull his fingers out with how needily you were sucking them back in.
He pulls away from you, smiling with a suspicious broadness. You pause and frown at him. Slowly chewing on gum that most definitely wasn't yours.
"That's fucking gross."
Scott shrugs with a grin, pulling his slick-coated fingers out of your cunt. You clench around nothing at the loss of his fingers, a flicker of your expression giving you away. "What's it taste like?"
He hums, stroking himself with the gathered wetness.
You sigh, chewing with nonchalance, blowing a bubble, then popping it.
"Green apple."
"Good. That's what your pussy's about to taste like, too."
The sudden dribble of wetness landing cold on your clit catches you off guard. Scott drags the wetness of his spit down and thumbs it into your fold. His cock soon pokes at your folds. You whimper the words that didn't make their way out at how inexplicably turned on you were.
A smaller pair of hands brushes past his as you part your pussy for him. Scott grunts at the gesture, shaking his head with a low whistle.
You were insane. And it was making him think very dangerous thoughts. Like ways to keep his cock snug in you forever, possibly.
Delicious, heady whines leave your parted lips at every inch he feeds into you. Pulsing and relaxing around his hot, throbbing cock. A hard snap of his hips has you clutching the sheets, kicking another one of his equipment to the ground.
"Ten grand you just kicked off there, champ."
"My pussy's worth way more than that." You quip, curling your palms around his bicep that was closest to you.
Scott grumbles low, the annoyance quickly fading off him at just how tightly you were clenching him.
"Something we both can agree on."
He turns his attention back to where you were still struggling to take him; another dribble of his spit follows, landing where you both were connected. You're physically shaking at the gesture, and Scott seems to notice. The wetness proved to be an easy fix, and he buries himself to the hilt in you with a final thrust.
"Ohhhhhhhh my fucking god," you groan, feet on its tippy toes, curled when he held you there.
Scott tilts his head, rutting into you, letting you get used to his size.
"Liked that, did you?" He coos, lightly slapping your cheek when you'd attempted to burrow them into the sheets. "Hey." It's rougher this time, where he forces your cheeks to look at him.
"H-Huh?" You let out a surprised whine when his thumb parts your lips, and he manoeuvres the sticky pink out of your mouth.
"When I spit on your pussy," he reminds with a heavy snap of his hips.
"N-Ng—hrrk!" Your eyes roll back at the intensity of where he circled his hips, and you're brought back with another gentle slap. "Y…eah. Was..reeal…hot…"
He smiles, then you feel his thumb soothe where it was turning red.
"Open your mouth."
You blink up at him hazily, letting him guide your parted mouth further open. Scott leans in. A slow dribble of clear liquid drips onto your tongue. Instinctively, you clench hard around his cock.
"Oh, you fucking love it," he muses, his own voice trembling. He smears the spit that missed over your lower lip. You lock your gaze with his, kitten licking his thumb. He flinches at that.
Scott begins to thrust harder, meaner, drinking in your loud moans.
"Mmmh..—fuck. Million dollar pussy you've got, better make it worth for me, huh?"
You begin to squirm your head away, where he was incessantly whispering stupid, mocking words into your neck.
"G-God. Shut up." You gasp, turning your to then gnaw at his biceps, tugging the shirt that was in the way.
Scott rids himself of the fabric with a fluid movement, relishing in the way the softness of your chest flattened onto him, he shucks his sweats halfway down his thighs for ease — where you slowly begin to rub your thighs against the fabric that remained, toeing it for warmth.
"Try not to kick anything else off." He chides, with a slow roll of his shoulders, hiking your hips closer to him.
You let out a softer squeak as you looked askew, past his biceps and onto the ghastly carpeted floors where his equipment that lay there abandoned.
Scott lets out a disgruntled groan at the bites and marks you were busy leaving all over his arm. "Ow — stop that." You don't seem to listen — red, angrier crescent moon marks form on the muscle, biting him like a woman possessed.
He grabs your jaw to face him, and you return a sharp glare.
"What?" You mutter, trying to keep your eyes focused despite the intrusive stretch that rocked into you relentlessly. Scott's fingers slide down the softness of your tongue — effectively gagging you. Drool collects where he holds you open, not stopping the role of his hips.
"Keep that up, an' I'm just gonna have to muzzle you."
You let out a muffled groan.
"Understand?"
Reluctantly, you nod. He pulls out, with a trail of your saliva following. "Hm. Not so bad when you actually listen, for once." With a grin, Scott lowers his head, stifling your annoyed grunts. You return the sloppy kisses he gives you, moaning low and content into his mouth.
Most of the night is spent like this, tasting of sweet, artificial apples and sourness on your tongue — so much so that Scott failed to notice the dozens of missed calls Kate & Javi had been sending him.
By the time silence had settled — you'd worn Scott out cold completely. With moves he didn't even know would've made him cum. At one point, he was sure you might've been his dream girl (though he'd die first before admitting it.)
It wasn't until a loud banging had him jerk right up, dazed.
"Christ, what?" Scott grunts, clambering off the bed, grabbing something nearby him to get decent.
"Scott! What the hell? Where have you been."
He drags his hand down his face, groggily, "I was with…" Scott pauses, looking at the bed — now completely empty. "….huh,” he points loosely to the bed. A confused look taking his face.
His equipment. Where was his equipment?
Javi doesn't understand why exactly Scott seemed frantic, looking for clothes that weren't there, adding to the missing pile of equipment. He shoves past his colleague, palms clutched around the metal railings.
Car missing from the lot, too.
He looks over to the dresser, where a quaint note he'd missed earlier lay.
Cute car. Doesn't suit a guy like you, hope you don't mind.
"Motherfucking…thieving...." He hisses, turning to Javi, "phone, give it." The shorter man looks over to him quizzically, watching Scott walk back into the room, shoulders hunched. Blue eyes tracking over the moving dot on the navigation map.
summary: your relationship with scott is one of your best kept secrets, but when he gets injured during a storm, all that effort goes out the window
warning: fluff and angst (heavy on the angst but the fluff is filtered throughout and it ends real sweet), secret but established relationship, mentions of drinking and reader being tipsy, reader being kinda mean but it’s to hide her and scott, heavy petting/making out, scott being anxious, lil bit of swearing, small detail of a cut, mention of blood and minor injury, brief mention of nudity
note: the people wanted scott, so i present thee with scott. also, i absolutely love this gif and i imagine that it’s scott being enamoured by reader in this
word count: 12.0k (buckle up, i clearly had a lot to say)
the stingy motel room had a lingering scent of musk, scott’s cologne and your shampoo. it was still early, far too early for you to think about getting out of bed, especially since the sun hadn’t even shown itself yet. but scott was up and dressed, just doing up the final buttons on his shirt before making the short trip back to his motel room that’s been unoccupied for the last two nights.
it’s a sight to see: he’s yet to put on his grey hat, his cargo pants high on his hips with his favourite belt holding them up; you can just see the sliver of his black undershirt from the collar of his white one and he tucks it into his waistband. his broad shoulders fill out the two shirts perfectly, the sleeves straining over his biceps as he adjusts the top buttons. you can only see the back of him, but your view from the bed of him facing the mirror is enough. enough to see his little freckles from the sun, enough to see his tongue peek out slightly from his lips as he sorts his shirt.
you smile at the sight, knowing he’s leaving in a few minutes, but you absolutely love watching him get ready to go.
when he’s happy, he turns around to face you, grabs his hat, phone and wallet off the opposite bedside table and makes his way around to your unofficial side of the bed. he stands tall beside you, waiting for you to lean up slightly before bending down and pressing a short kiss on your lips. you both smiled, faces only centimetres away from each other before kissing him again.
and, as always, you slip something into his cargo pants pocket. today, a new stick of gum; he was starting to run out of his cinnamon flavour.
“i’ll see you in a bit, okay?” he whispers, not moving away from you at all.
“okay. i’ll see you in a bit.” you smiled, pressing one last kiss on his lips before pushing his chest away and laughing at his laugh.
“menace,” came one last whisper, “breakfast at 7:30, yeh?”
“7:30, got it.” you threw him an exaggerated thumbs up as he opened the door slowly, watching left and right for anyone there and leaving without a trace.
you fell backwards onto the bed, a smile never leaving your face as you turned and pushed your head back into the pillows. the sheets still smelt like him. hell, the whole room still smelt like him. and you really couldn’t complain because those moments that you have at night and the moments you have in the morning are all you have to get you through the day.
it’s not that you didn’t want to let people know you were with scott, you weren’t worried about what they’d say. but it was still early. it’d only been a few months and you were completely enamoured with each other. the only worry was your jobs, and what it would mean if people knew. his uncle was the main investor, so scott was kind of like the leader of the group. you weren’t. and that could cause issues.
so you kept it quiet, taking any and every moment you could get with each other in the quiet of your motel room, stealing glances at each other across parking lots and watching as he drove head first into some of the worst tornadoes you’ve ever seen. but if that’s how it had to be, that’s how it was.
you staked your claim on him last night under the cover of darkness and this morning with a new pack of gum.
just as scott asked, you were down for breakfast on time. there were a few little groups of the team chatting away with each other and you said morning to each of them as you passed. it didn’t take long to spot javi, kate and scott by the lion truck, both of the guys leaning against the bed as they went over the plans for the day. as much as you wanted to join him, you left them with just a good morning and headed over to the small group of girls of the team, missing only kate, but she was busy doing her job.
scott couldn’t describe how difficult it was to just nod at you each morning, watching as you walked past him like he was just another colleague and joined your friends. he had to stop himself from reaching out to you, wanting nothing more than to pull you into his arms and show everyone exactly how he felt about you. but he didn’t. he couldn’t. not yet, anyway.
after everyone had eaten, you had the normal debrief from javi and scott went over the plans for the day. it was the same as usual: storms coming from the west and the east, moving to and from different places to wait for when a tornado formed and actually looked like it would stay instead of suffocating itself. the group dispersed, heading to their designated vehicles and it wasn’t long after that you got your usual text from scott. a short ‘be safe’ was all you got, just in case anyone saw, and you text back the exact same with a little heart after it.
it's a slow day of chasing tornadoes, a lot of standing around parking lots and waiting for the weather to turn bad. you don't mind days like this, it was a nice difference compared to constantly being on the move and driving into storms. it gave the whole team a chance for some down time, even javi and scott who always seemed to be on edge when working, and also allowed you a chance to actually see scott, instead of hearing his voice over the ear pieces everyone wore.
you could situate yourself to face him, still talking in whatever group you joined whilst having a perfect view of him leaning against the truck, either talking to javi and kate or typing away on his laptop. some days you felt like you could stare at him for hours, watching as the little vein in his neck popped out when he was stressed or thinking hard about something, watching as he shifted from one foot to another after standing up for too long. seeing the outline of whatever gift you'd slipped into his cargo pants pocket that morning appear and disappear as he moved.
and those moments when he looked over and caught you staring? they were the best moments, because he always gave you a knowing smile, letting his own eyes cast up and your body before looking away and focusing back on his work. it's like he knows when you're staring, like he has a sixth sense that's honed directly on you. but he also knows when you're not looking at him, when you're so focused on your conversation with someone that he has the freedom to study you, take all of you in and hold himself back from closing the gap and taking you in his arms.
by the time the evening came around, everyone was still wired from the day. having few tornadoes to chase meant everyone still had some energy, and it was decided that the team would head to the bar across from the motel to have a few drinks, get some food and relax before heading back to their rooms. javi and scott stayed behind with the trucks, having the excuse of needing to talk to riggs about the day and adjust the plan for tomorrow. a few heads nodded as others had already turned towards the bar, naturally falling into similar groups from earlier in the day and strolling towards the welcoming lights spelling out HENRY'S TAVERN.
you were in that small group that nodded at the guys, scott's gaze meeting yours for a second as he raised his eyebrows, tilted his head slightly and patted the side of his leg. it had become your little sign of him saying 'save me a seat', so you just smiled and walked off with the others, catching up with kate, samantha and tilly as they had begun chatting away about something.
it wasn't long until javi and scott joined you all. the group occupied a few tables in the far corner of the bar, further away from the other noisy patrons with the hope of being able to hear each other more clearly without shouting over the noise. you and the girls were engrossed in conversation, back to the door and not realising that kate was moving her chair over to make space for javi and scott to sit in between you two. as soon as you felt scott's presence next to you, you shifted your seat and welcomed him into your space, smiling up at him as he tipped his cap towards you. as he pulled his seat forward, you shifted again, the few drinks you've had before him getting there giving you the confidence to move a little too close than what could be considered co-worker behaviour.
but no one noticed. no one says anything or calls you out on it. so you stay where you are, feeling immediately more at ease now that scott was beside you.
only then do you remember what you were wanting to say to kate before being interrupted, so you lean over the table and invade more of scott's space, calling out kate's name and getting her attention.
"hey, i forgot to mention earlier, the special they have here is great, you should try it!" you smiled, watching kate nod her head enthusiastically and agree with your idea. beside you, scott is frozen, shocked at how close you are to him after being so careful around everyone as to not reveal your relationship. he tries to school his face and keep it neutral, but he can smell your perfume and your hand is so close to his and if he just moved the tiniest bit then he could-
but you pulled back, happy with what you'd said to kate, so much so that javi had now joined in and livened up the conversation. you're back to being by his side instead of in front of him now, taking another sip of your drink as javi asks what the special is and if it's any good. you're nodding fast in agreement, explaining the liquor inside of it and how they make it, and scott can't help but use this time while his friend is distracted to look over you properly.
he's seen you a lot today, but there's still moments when you're not near each other and they're the most dangerous times; being out in the open with tornadoes. he took the chance to look over you, starting with the curves of your face, your lips moving fast and hands flying animatedly in front of you. it gave him the perfect opportunity to look over your bare arms, checking for any cuts and bruises he may have missed that he'll want to take care of later. you seem fine, and he has to remind himself of that (he also needs to stop checking you out before someone realises, but he can never tear his eyes away from you).
it isn't until he feels your hand on the outside of his right thigh, your delicate fingers tracing the seams of his cargo pants pocket, dancing across his thigh in a rehearsed move, that he comes out of his trance. you always did this whenever he sat next to you and your hand was hidden, he just didn’t realise you would do it tonight in such close quarters with others and whilst staring kate and javi straight in the eyes. almost like you were teasing, like you were saying ‘come get me’, to whom, scott didn’t know. but if no one else did, he’d take you out of this place and straight back to his room.
your hand shifted towards the outline of the now-opened gum packet; it was strawberry flavour, and if there wasn’t so many people around you, you’d be begging scott for a taste. it takes all his strength to keep listening to your conversation, adding a nod or a uh huh here and there to show he was listening. javi asked him something and he was almost sure he was going to need it repeating if it wasn’t for your attention being pulled away, your hand off scott’s thigh and his mind free.
samantha had grabbed your arm, taking you out of your conversation and pulling you close to her. you giggled, hand leaving scott and picking up your drink to take a sip before hearing what she had to say.
“girl, scott was totally just checking you out as you leaned over him!” her voice was quiet against the sounds of the bar, like she only wanted you to hear the secret that clearly wasn’t a secret if people had noticed scott looking at you.
you just rolled your eyes and blew out a puff of air, a hand lifting to waft through the air in a dismissive way, “no way would scott miller ever check me out!” you scoffed, completely ignoring the fact that scott could hear you. “have you seen him? mr big arms with his grumpy attitude and scowl and freckles and sunglasses that he never takes off.”
samantha’s jaw dropped, clearly not believing what you were saying and adamant that scott was most definitely looking at you. “i swear on my life, he was looking you up and down like a sheet of data, you know how he gets hot over sciencey things like that!”
“a sheet of data? way to make me feel good about myself.” you laughed, thinking the comparison was hilarious in your inebriated state. “out of the entire team, i’m sure scott would be the last person checking me out, he’s like so married to his work. also, he’s like hot and mean? and he gets away with it? how could i get past his rudeness even for just one night?”
you might have been going over board to convince samantha that there was nothing going on between you two. you could believe that scott had looked at you when you leaned over him, he always did in the privacy of your rooms, swearing up and down that he was checking you for cuts, but also using it as an excuse to kiss you all over.
he made you giggle when he did that, his big, warm hands so gentle as they ran over your skin, pushing your - his - shirt up your stomach to kiss as much of you as possible. he’d have you spread out on your sheets, lips grazing your skin inbetween kissing old scars, new cuts and all your beauty marks. your face was always the last place he explored, kissing along your jaw first before kissing both your cheeks, your temple, then forehead, then nose and finally your lips. first it would be a chaste kiss, then he’d linger longer on the next kiss, and longer on the next one and the next one until you were sharing breaths, panting slightly as you both became hungry for more.
his hands would be all over your body, sharing their time between your hips, thighs and cheeks as your own stayed on his face. your fingers ran through his messy waves that were usually hidden from everyone else, pulling at the strands to get him to groan and bite your lips in retaliation. you’d always giggle at that, something scott would swallow down as he kissed you again, pinching your skin to get you to thrust upwards into him, this time pulling a groan from you.
you felt like a teenager with him, sneaking around to not be found out, sloppily making out on top of and under covers as you lost sleep for each other. both of you could not get enough of the other. which made it so difficult to lie to samantha and make out like you could never want scott.
“…and the gum thing? so not attractive.” you finished, your hand coming up once again to brush off one of his quirks (which you so adored), pulling a face to make it more believable.
“oh, my god, tell me about it! i’ve been waiting for someone to agree with that, but everyone just shrugs it off like he’ll fire them if he ever heard it.” samantha giggled as you took another drink, not wanting to agree or disagree with her. sure scott could be mean and a bit harsh, but he wouldn’t do anything like that.
scott was still listening to everything you said, eyes stuck on kate and javi as he chuckled under his breath at your words. he knew you loved his grumpiness, his scowl, his freckles and his sunglasses. he knew you loved that he was ‘hot and mean’ and that he liked his gum; you’d been giving him at least three new packs a week since you’d gotten together.
honestly, he’s surprised that no one’s ever realised that he never buys gum, but is always chewing it, and that you always buy it, but never chew it.
even after what felt like hours, samantha is still adamant that scott was checking you out, all your rebuttals being tossed out for her plans to seemingly get you together. and scott can only try to hide his laugh, not wanting to give away that he’s totally engrossed in your conversation and not the one he’s meant to be involved in.
it isn’t until your final comment that he zones out, finishing off the rest of his drink and fully returning to kate and javi.
“sam, girl, nothing’s happened between us and nothing will. we’re so different, and as hot as he is, i can’t get over his attitude.”
he knows it’s not true, he’s repeating that mantra over and over in his head until it sticks like glue, but hearing those words come from you hurt more than he’d care to admit. without knowing how, his heart hurts, a hundred little needles having worked their way through his skin and made a home in his chest. he can feel his body physically slouch, anxiously wanting to grab a piece of gum from his cargo pants pocket.
but your hand’s there again, tracing the seams and the gum packet, your conversation having changed from all the reasons you can’t be with scott to something about a new film out next week. you were soothing yourself with your own touch on him, but his skin underneath the material was burning. it was only adding to his big feelings that he didn’t know what to do with.
usually when he’s alone with you, it’s easy to let them out with you, it’s easy to talk to you and kiss you and feel you and tell you how he’s feeling. but with your hand on his thigh and the bar loud and crowded, everything feels warm and suffocating and, fuck, he needed to get out.
javi offered to grab another round, picking up any empty glasses before heading across the room to the bar, leaving scott with you and the other girls. you were all engrossed in some conversation about a couple of the other guys; scott didn't know who or what about, he'd zoned out a while ago and hoped that javi would soon save him with a distraction.
you glanced over towards kate as you spoke, seeing scott in the corner of your eye looking disinterested and seemingly deflated. you just assumed it was because javi had left, so you rubbed his thigh a bit harder, hoping to get his attention before tracing the outline of the pocket again. he either didn't want to seem too obvious that he was staring at you again, or his mind was elsewhere because he didn't even respond to your touch, his gaze not meeting yours for even a second. you brushed it off, your brain reminding you that he was fine and he was next to you and that’s all that mattered.
scott wasn't fine, but he wasn't about to tell anyone that.
the team stayed in the bar for a couple more hours, getting rowdier and louder the more drinks everyone bought and downed. your little table had ended up playing drinking games, kate and javi desperately trying to get scott involved, who ended up doing the bare minimum as to not be called boring by the others. you just laughed at him and the comments people were saying, knowing it was completely untrue and scott could genuinely be so fun, he just saved it for the right people.
it was about an hour before the bar closed that everyone made the short journey back to their rooms, almost as if a few people remembered they had work tomorrow and dragged the crowd back across the road. you walked alongside kate, samantha and tilly again, still gossiping and giggling as scott and javi brought up the rear. goodnights were called across the lot, some people stumbling up the stairs to their room and others tripping up the curb to get to the lower floor. you waved to the girls as you opened your door, subconsciously watching for scott to enter his, but finding his door already shut and no sign of him. you knew he'd seek you out, he always did. you just needed to wait a little bit and you’d have your man in your arms once again.
half an hour later, your door slowly opened, revealing scott in his white sleep shirt, sweatpants and a pair of socks. if you were any sober, you'd be all over him, dragging him to your bed and forgetting about the others next door to you. but scott looked softer tonight, a little more subdued than normal, so you took the opportunity to be gentle with him.
he shut and locked the door, making his way the few feet to where you were sat on your side of the bed waiting for him. his touch was gentle against your cheek as he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, whispering a quiet 'hey' as he did so. you smiled at his touch, looking up at him properly as he pulled away from you. as one of his hands reached around to hold the back of your neck, both of yours found his hips and traced the waistband of his sweatpants.
"hey," your voice quiet and mind running a hundred miles an hour as you looked at him. no hat, no sunglasses, no gum, just scott in his purest, softest form and you couldn't be more grateful to have him. "did you have a good time tonight?" you asked, hands shifting from his hips to run up and down his stomach and chest.
"yeh, it was okay, you seemed to have fun." he replied, his touch shifting from your face to your shoulders as he pulled away from you.
"yeh, it's always nice to have a chill night and just talk to everyone." you seemed to miss the emptiness of his words, following behind him as he grabbed your sleepwear (which consisted of an old pair of shorts and scott's grey MIT t-shirt) and walked towards your bathroom.
"i'll be out here if you need anything." it came out in more of a mumble than he expected, but you didn't realise as you pressed a kiss to his cheek and just closed the bathroom door.
as you got changed and brushed your teeth, you thought back to your conversation with samantha, realising that scott wasn't the same as he is other nights and feeling as if you'd cracked the code that is scott miller. you felt bad about what you'd said, of course, but you also agreed to keep things quiet and not let everyone know about the two of you, so why would he be like this?
regardless, you finished in the bathroom, opened the door and flicked the lights off before finding scott sat at the end of the bed waiting for you. he's usually under the sheets, shirt off (depending on the weather) with open arms ready to settle down with you. so, you took in his hunched form, his gaze turned down to his hands in his lap as you stepped towards him.
"you know i like you, right?" you said plainly, two fingers hooking under his chin to lift his head up towards your gaze. "like, really like you, scott. and everything i said to samantha was to throw her off us because you decided to check me out." you giggled, trying to get him to smile, but your own smile dropped when scott didn't even react to your comment.
only then did you realise you'd have to try something else, so you held onto his shoulders, pressed one knee into the space next to his thigh and sat on his lap, hands moving to his cheeks to hold his gaze with your own. you looked over his face, his expression not changing, but his hands came to rest on your hips, so you knew he was comfortable. the blue in his eyes was unwavering, still shining brightly as they looked at you, regardless of how he may have been feeling earlier.
"scott," you whispered, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his nose. "we both agreed to keep this quiet, and i'm sorry if what i said upset you earlier, but surely you know how i feel about you by now, no? huh?" you smirked slightly, knowing that you often tell him how he makes you feel and you try to show it as much as possible; maybe he just needs a reminder.
"i love your big arms," your hands moved down his neck to his shoulders and then over his biceps which were half covered by his sleeves. "i love your attitude," you lightly nipped at his skin, tracing a couple of marks on his skin. "i love your scowl and your freckles," your hands moved back up to his face, one hand staying on the side of neck as your other danced across his cheeks and his nose. "and i love your little obsession with your sunglasses." you giggled, shifting on his lap to press your body closer to his (if that was even possible) and started to run a hand through his hair.
"i like that you're hot and mean, i like that you're so dedicated to your job and you're so smart, and, in all honesty, with me you could probably get away with murder." that pulled a chuckle from him, shaking his head as he scoffed and looked down at his lap again. his hands moved under your (his) shirt and rubbed against your bare skin, sending shivers down your spine as your own hands moved from his hair to his face yet again. you could touch scott forever; he was always so soft and warm and your hands fit perfectly on his body and in his own.
"and the gum thing?" you whispered finally, watching as his head lifted up on its own to look at you again. "so attractive."
and with your last comment, his eyebrows raised slightly, his head titling to the side as he kept his eyes on your own. you could only smile, the closed-lip kind you always seemed to wear when looking at scott (and the kind you have to stop yourself doing when others were around). the two of you just sit in silence after that, the only noise being the hum of the air conditioner as you kept close to scott, both still touching each other and eyes still locked.
without warning, scott stood up, bringing you with him as he moved around the bed and dropped you down onto the sheets. you giggled at his actions, pulling them out from underneath you and throwing them open to let him get into bed from his own side. after he got comfortable on his back, you were immediately by his side, one leg thrown over his thighs and your hand on his chest over his heart. your head fit snuggly on his shoulder, turning your face slightly to press a kiss on his neck and under his jaw.
you shuffled around a bit, getting comfortable before whispering a small 'goodnight' to him, "i wish things were different, baby," you added, moving your touch from his chest to around his stomach, holding him close. "i wish we could tell everyone and not have to lie about it. i want to show everyone how i feel about you an' show you off, but i know it's not the right time."
before he had a chance to reply, your eyes were shut and your breathing had begun to even out and fall into steady, deep breaths. he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, a hand landing on the side of your knee as he whispered the same sentiment back to you.
his heart felt a bit lighter in that moment. his anxiety was somewhat settled, especially now with you in his arms and wrapped around his body.
in that moment, the chipped paint of the ceiling seemed more interesting than closing his eyes. scott's mind was still reeling and going over everything you'd said earlier and everything you’d just said whilst next to him. he wanted the same thing; he wanted to hold your hand and kiss you and show you off to everyone and make them all see how much he cared about you. he wanted to be able to check you out without comments from other people and he wanted to be able to pull you onto his lap in dingy bars and stake his claim on you like you did with your gifts in his cargo pants pocket.
but you were right, it wasn't the right time. and maybe while you were still in this line of work and still in business with his uncle, maybe he couldn't do all those things. but it didn't mean he'd stop thinking about it, or you, when he should be focused on chasing tornadoes.
the sun was starting to rise outside your motel room, waking up scott as a reminder that he needs to leave you before anyone sees him walking out of your door at this hour. somehow, he manages to slide out from underneath your body, feeling guilty as he looks over your sleeping form now hugging a pillow as a poor replacement for his warmth.
as much as he wants to, scott doesn't linger long. he grabbed his phone from the table next to the bed, briefly forgetting that he's forgone shoes in his haste to get to your room last night and stopped searching for them after a moment or so. the shitty bed frame creaked slightly as you adjusted your position, rolling over to face the door and releasing a sigh before settling into the sheets again.
as he walked to the door, scott looked over at you one last time, mourning the loss of your usual routine together, already missing your smile and the soft kisses you'd usually press all over his face before even giving him a chance to get out of bed. but it was already late, and there was bound to be someone awake by now, so he needed to leave before he jeopardised your relationship more than he already may have done last night.
he ignores the heaviness of his heart, pained by the usual feeling of leaving you behind. god, what he wouldn't give to wake up with you every morning, getting ready together after the sun was up and walking down to meet the group together instead of separately. luck must have been on his side that morning as he didn't see anyone else, making the short walk three doors down to his own assigned room unnoticed and slipped through the door.
the room was almost completely untouched, the bed having never been slept in and the sheets only disturbed by his suitcase which he threw on it haphazardly about three days ago. the ironing board was still out by the window, his clothes from yesterday folded neatly on the flat surface and his shirt for the day hung above it. the cargo pants thrown over the chair next to the door mocked him, a harsh reminder that today would be different because he didn't have you the way he wanted this morning, he didn't get his kiss and he'd be missing one of your little gifts he loved so.
somehow, everyone made it down to breakfast on time. albeit some looked worse for wear and would have probably appreciated a little longer in bed, storms don't wait for anyone, and after the lack of bad weather yesterday (and to ignore his feelings), scott was itching to get out on the road and chase some tornadoes.
the sky was dark already, so breakfast and the debrief was hastened along, javi calling for people to get ready to leave as soon as possible whilst scott was already typing away on his laptop in the front of the scarecrow truck. you barely managed to catch his eye this morning, having already missed him when you woke up, you felt backwards and apprehensive about the day ahead. unbeknownst to you, you were feeling the exact same way as scott; your heart was heavy and your normal routine had been disturbed, a bad start to any day. he'd been up and gone by the time your alarm went off, and you knew that he hadn't even attempted to wake you before he snuck out.
as you headed to join your group, you managed to look over at scott, hunched forward in his seat as he was glued to his laptop. his glasses were hung over his shirt pocket, hat sat straight on his head. you loved watching him work, watching him concentrate so hard and use his brain to work out the storms and the best course of action. it was one of the things you'd forgotten to mention last night as you reminded him of why you were with him, not just then in the moment, but why you wanted to be with him.
sure, you'd mentioned about his smarts, but there was so much more to it with him. it was how easily he calculated things, how quickly he was to make or change plans at a moment's notice. how he could choose the right tornado from the wrong one and be so confident in it before the storm had even formed. you were constantly in awe of him and his brain and every time he said something smart or smart-ass (which was very often), you just wanted to grab his face in your hands and kiss him all over.
but all you could do was stare at him, watch as he typed away, his eyebrows creasing slightly as he figured something out. he was so handsome in times like this, and you couldn't do anything about it.
your name being called dragged you away from scott, missing him looking over in your direction as you headed to your truck and hopped in the front with samantha. it wasn't long before pete joined scott and got into the driver's seat, both pulling on their seatbelts before heading out of the parking lot. javi and kate followed behind in lion, whilst you, samantha and tim pulled out in tin man.
just as the team were hoping for, the weather kept turning from bad to worse as storm and tornado followed after each other. you all kept on moving from place to place, trucks getting dirtier at each rest stop and barely having time to dry off before the chase started again. since the day before was poor for data collection, scott and javi wanted to be on the road as much as possible, which meant fewer and shorter breaks, only stopping for as little time as possible to keep going.
usually you can sneak down an aisle of the gas station convenience store to see scott, even just for a minute or two to share a short kiss. you were wanting to give him his little gift, today a note with a few reminders on it for him, hoping the small gesture would soothe something in you and make you worry less than you already were. but you didn't get that chance. he barely left the truck, only hopping out to go to the bathroom and grab a quick drink, never being in the same place as you were at the same time. it was only then that you realised he hadn't even sent you your usual text, your phone falling silent, void of any important notifications.
little did you know, scott had been looking out for you. he had watched as you got in and out of the truck at each rest stop, he had watched as you walked through the automatic doors of the gas stations, shortly leaving with your arms full of snacks and drinks for the rest of your group. he followed after you a couple of times, keeping his distance, and headed over to the shelves of gum packets, waiting for you to turn down the aisle and properly look at him. it wasn't unknown to scott that you glanced over at him at any opportunity; he did exactly the same and would be a hypocrite if he tried to hide it. all he could think about was you, you, you. all he wanted was to see you and say hi and take in the presence that was you.
but scott has always struggled with words. he struggled to convey his feelings, preferring to be the silent and brooding type than let feelings and emotions get involved. but it was different with you. feelings were always involved with you, and he couldn't get over his pride or bruised ego to even just talk to you today. he really should. he had regretted not sending you your usually text, he had regretted not waking you up when he did, he had regretted leaving you alone, but that's what he'd done. he needed to own it or get over it. so he brooded and practically ignored you, and it pained him as much as it pained you.
it was a long day. a long day of driving and storms and getting wet and not seeing scott. you never really realised how much you saw him when you weren't busy and how much you actually missed him in the day after not seeing him first thing in the morning. the note that should be in his cargo pants pocket burnt a hole in your own and it was the only thing you could think of on the drive back to the motel.
the rain was still coming down heavily, windscreen wipers flying back and forth with such speed you thought they'd fly off any minute. tim was driving again, this time with samantha in the front and you in the back. all of you were so tired that the truck was silent, only the downpour of the rain providing a background noise to your thoughts. you loved weather like this, that's one of the reasons you took this job, so being able to stare out over the open fields and watch the rain and clouds dance together was what you needed today.
you were probably only five minutes away from the motel when the truck started to spin, sliding on the standing puddles of water on the road and causing tim to lose all control. the three of you just gasped, grabbing onto whatever you could to steady yourself as you let the truck do what it needed to do to battle the weather. after a few rotations the truck stopped suddenly, its side crashing into a fence which had ran parallel to the road for the past few miles.
the three of you looked between you all, still not saying anything as you all fought to catch your breath and give a nod of ‘i’m okay’ to each other. the others had kept driving, your truck bringing up the rear, so your only option was to keep going back to the motel, take it slow and hope that no one noticed the massive dent in the truck. easy enough, right?
by the time you got back, the parking lot was almost empty, only the storm par trucks occupying a few of the spaces and a couple of other random cars dotted around the lot. it was still pouring it down, and the first thing you all saw as you pulled up was scott stood under the cover of the second floor's walkway, stood directly in front of your truck's space with his arms cross and a scowl painting his face.
the three of you got out, grabbing your bags before quickly joining him underneath the cover and away from the rain. none of you said anything, just stood in front of scott like you were waiting for either a lecture or permission to head to your rooms. he just looked between you all, expression not changing even as he looked straight in your eyes and spoke directly to you.
"what took you so long?"
"we just got caught up in the weather, didn't want to rush getting back." tim replied, his voice wavering slightly as he noticed the intensity of scott's gaze on you.
"i wasn't asking you." he bit back, not even looking over at tim as he spoke to you. "what took you so long?"
"erm, we jus-just got caught up, scott, like tim said." your reply was quiet, knowing he would be upset with you for lying especially after he found out the real reason why you guys were late.
"then why is there a dent in the side of my truck, hum? get caught up in a tornado i didn't see?" your cheeks heated up, face scrunching as you winced at his words. of course he'd realise, truly nothing got past him. but he still didn't look away from you as he waited for a reply, even if it was another excuse. tim and samantha looked shocked at scott's behaviour, knowing he could be intense, but never having singled you out for something before, especially not for something you actually hadn't done.
you kept staring at scott, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't make him any more angry than he already was. tim was trying to think of how to explain how he damaged the truck, and samantha was trying to hard not to scream 'i told you so', still adamant in her theory that scott had a thing for you. the only thing saving you from an awkward silence was the rain, that was until javi came out from his room and saw the four of you stood together.
"hey, you guys are back- what happened to the truck?" he cut himself off with his own question, looking over the dented side with his hands in his hair before turning back to you. "is everyone alright?"
the contrast between their two approaches was like whiplash. you wanted to blurt out your apologies and throw in an 'i'm okay' to stop javi worrying, but with scott still staring you down, you were too worried to look away from him. you'd missed his presence and his face all day and thought that if you looked away, even for a minute, he'd turn around and walk away from you. and after what had just happened, it was taking everything in you not to grab him and hold him close.
"we're okay," samantha said, looking at javi with apologies in her eyes. "we're sorry about the truck, we just caught some water and spun out a little. this shitty fence broke our spin and dented the side, i'm so sorry, javi."
"it's okay, we can get that fixed, as long as you guys are ok-"
"who was driving?" scott's voice was even, asking you another question that you really didn't want to answer.
"scott, i-"
"who was driving?" he said it slower, in a tone that suggested he knew the answer already, interrupting whatever you were about to say.
"it was me." tim spoke up.
"pack your shit, you're going tomorrow."
"scott, you can't just-"
"sir, it was an accident, i really didn't-"
"well, your 'accident' could have killed three people tonight," scott finally looked away from you and you felt like you could breath again. "i'm here to do my job and keep everyone safe. you pulling shit like this doesn't help, so i want you gone by the morning. this job doesn't call for liabilities, and currently you're the only one i'm looking at."
(was it bad that this was kinda turning you on and you thought it was incredibly hot of him?)
"scott, man, let's just all get some rest, cool off and come back to this in the morning." javi tried to bargain with him, moving forward into scott's space and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"i'm cool, javi. i've made my decision and it's final." he insisted, turning back to look at you, eyes softening at the tired look on your face. god, he just wanted to pick you up, take you to bed and just be grateful that you're still with him. "you all could have died, i don't take that shit lightly."
he shrugged off javi’s hand, his hand dropped into his cargo pants pocket and pulled out a set of keys before pushing past his best friend and storming towards the scarecrow truck. it made a high-pitched beep as scott unlocked the doors, pulled open the driver’s side and got in. before he had a chance to shut the door, you’d managed to drop your bag and head out into the rain, a hand grabbing the door before scott was able to close it fully.
“what are you doing? you can’t go out in this!” you almost screamed at him, the rain drowning out your voice to the others still stood under the cover as they watched you talk to scott.
“why not, huh? nothing happened to you guys, just got caught up!” he replied, his tone dripping with sass as he replayed your own words back to you.
“come on, don’t be like that! i didn’t want you to worry, and we’re fine!”
“you could have died!” his voice dropped, eyes looking right into yours as you noticed some tears starting to well at the bottom of them. you couldn’t stop a gasp from leaving your lips, hoping that you were shielding scott’s expression from the others behind you; javi would never let him live it down.
“oh, baby,” you reached out to his face. “i’m okay, really, i’m fine. just please don’t go, not like this. i know you’re upset, but anything can happen in this weather. please, don’t go.”
your touch seemed to snap him out of his thoughts as he grabbed your wrist and brought it back down to your side.
“i’ll be back in a bit.” he said plainly, watching as you stepped back and let him slam the door, turn the engine over and drive out of the parking lot.
“what the fuck was that?!”
“i’ll tell you when you grow up.” samantha patted tim on the back, picking up your bag as you made you way back under the motel, absolute drenched and visibly panicking.
“javi, you- we have to go. we have to follow him and get him back here, now.”
"in this weather? you guys have already had an accident, with two more trucks out there, who knows what'll happen. we need to get inside and-"
"we need to go get him, javi!" you shouted over him, samantha and tim realising this isn't their fight anymore and leaving to go back to their rooms. "please, javi, you're his best friend, you know how he gets, and his temper and this weather and driving is not going to end well."
"you're real worried, huh?" he asked, no teasing, no harshness to his words. he only needed to take one look at the anxiety on your face and your heavy breathing to realise how you felt about the man in question.
"yes, i am worried." your words were plain, and said quite matter of factly. "i can go on my own-"
"no, no way, scott would definitely kill me then." javi looked back at the motel, seemingly trying to end his internal battle of either going back inside or coming with you.
it took him a moment before he looked back at you, his hand diving into his trouser pocket and pulling out the keys to the lion truck, "come on, let’s go."
javi leads you as you both step out into the rain again. you're completely drenched by now, but you couldn't care less as you wait for him to unlock the doors and hop into the passenger side. the engine rumbles and javi's quick to put it in to reverse, pulling out of the motel parking lot without looking back. the road is completely empty, windscreen wipers working overtime as they battle against the heaving downpour that hasn't let up in the past few hours. you don't even know if you're going in right direction; you definitely saw scott turn left out of the lot, but there were so many side roads coming up that he could have turned down, so many turns off of them meaning he could be anywhere.
both of you scan the road, looking left and right for any sign of headlights or the distinct white truck, anything to give you a hint as to where scott could be. you knew you should have stopped him. you should have grabbed onto his hand and pulled him out the of truck, should have dragged him towards the motel and into your room and straight in the shower, wanting nothing more than to warm up and forget about the day.
but scott was stubborn. once he set his mind to something, it was difficult to stop him. you knew he didn't verbalise things, you knew he found it difficult and would rather be rude and stand-offish to other people, but never to you. he was frustrated about today, you could see that from a mile off, but doing this was dangerous and when you got him, you didn't know whether to scold him for being so reckless or kiss him after ignoring you all day. maybe both.
probably both.
you don't know how long you've been driving for, constantly on high alert for anything that looked vaguely like a storm par truck. a fence started to run parallel to the road, and you recognised it as the one you drove into earlier. it gave you a sick feeling in your stomach, your insides twisting as if they knew something was wrong.
and something was very wrong.
"javi, stop!" you shouted, seeing the tail end of a truck a few feet above the ground, the front stuck half in a ditch and half through a fence. the truck hadn't even fully stopped by the time you were out of it, leaving the door wide open as you ran over to the drivers side and peered into the cab.
and there was scott, body slumped forward over the wheel, hat thrown to the side.
"shit." you mumbled, hand grasping at the door handle and pulling to get it open. javi joined you within seconds, both tugging at the metal to try and pry it away from the truck. the front must have been badly bent out of shape because it takes you a bit to do so, taking it in turns to pull the handle and push the inside of the door to reveal scott.
when the door was at its widest, you pushed past javi to get to him. he was breathing slowly, his body moving the tiniest bit as he groaned and tried to sit up. your hands immediately reached out to him, your right grasping onto his shoulder as your left found his chest. you helped him to slowly move, eyes darting over his face and arms to check for any bad cuts or wounds that he may have. there were a few little ones dotted across his forearms, the biggest one being a cut just above his eyebrow. it didn't look too deep, but it was enough to make you worry and want to get him out of this truck and into the other one as soon as possible.
"scott, honey, it's okay, i'm here. we're here." your voice was quiet as you called out to him and got him set back against the seat, a hand coming to rest on his cheek to turn his face to your own. "you're okay, i'm here."
one of his eyes opened, taking all of you in; your soaked hair, your drenched shirt, the loving look you had in your eyes and the relieved look on your face. seeing you now, javi just a foot behind you, he regretted running off and leaving the motel. he had regretted it about five minutes after he'd left, but it wasn't much longer after that that he crashed, wheels sliding over the surface water and spinning him into the same goddamn fence you'd crashed in to.
"hey." he smiled at you, a wide-toothed grin directed only at you as you gave him one of your own. without even thinking, you cupped his face in both your hands and brought him towards you, placing a short kiss on his lips, then his nose and his forehead. he winced slightly, making an apology tumble from your lips as you lightly brushed over his new cut. luckily, it wasn't deep, but it was going to sting like hell and would definitely need some steri-strips to pull it back together.
javi just stood back as he watched the two of you, glad that his friend was okay, but still reeling in the new information that he'd just witnessed in front of him. before he knew it, you were pulling scott out of the cab, one of his arms falling around your shoulders as he ran to scott's other side and helped you take him over to the not-damaged truck.
you pulled open the back door, twisting around so you could sit scott backwards onto the seat. pulling away from him, you reached into the passenger seat, door still open from you rushing out, and grabbed the first aid kit that was all of the glove boxes. when you'd first joined, the guys hadn't even thought of keeping one handy in any of the trucks, so you took it upon yourself to compile some together and keep them updated. right now, you're thanking your past self for the idea, rushing back to scott's side to fix him up, throwing the box in his lap before opening it.
javi went to the ditched truck and pulled out whatever was important that was still lying in the footwells, grabbing scott's abandoned hat and sunglasses before he doesn't hear the end of it. you started cleaning up the cut on scott's face, trying to shield him and yourself from the rain that was still pouring, albeit slower now than earlier, but you really didn't want get any plasters wet before pressing them onto his skin.
the sterilised wipe turned red quickly, the blood from his cut still flowing slowly as you tried to stop it as much as possible, "hold that there." you grabbed one of scott's hands, pulling it up towards his forehead and pressing it onto the cotton above his brow.
"yes, ma'am." he teased, loving how you had practically ignored javi's presence for the past few minutes in order to take care of him. you pressed another kiss on his lips before wiping around the cuts on his arms with a clean wipe, feeling his eyes on you constantly as you did so.
"you're so reckless, you know?" you mumbled, taking care with your actions. "driving off and leaving me at the motel in a storm like this. this is so much worse than just a bump into a fence, you could have been seriously hurt, scott." you glanced up at him quickly, watching as his smile dropped and head dipped slightly.
"m'sorry, sweetheart, i didn't mean to scare you."
"i know, i'm just glad you're okay. i don't know what i would have done if anything had happened to you." you finished tending to his arms and shifted your attention back to his face. the cotton had soaked up most of the blood, now just needing a clean and something to keep it together. javi was still stood behind you, not wanting to get in the middle of whatever argument you may be having. it didn't seem like one, but javi just wanted to get back into the truck and head back to the motel; he was getting colder by the minute.
you grabbed another wipe, throwing the cotton into the growing pile of blood-soaked fabrics. "can't believe you've marked up your pretty little face, at least your hat'll hide it while it's healing." with the blood now gone, you grabbed some steri-strips. "i'll have to change these in a couple of days, we'll grab some more when we leave tomorrow to replace them in the box." you'd place one on already, pinching his skin to set the other one. "thank God i put them in the trucks, you'd be bleeding out on the backseat if i hadn't. on that note, you're so stupid for coming out here in this rain-"
"i know, i shouldn't have-"
"you don't understand how worried i was when you drove off and how scared i was to find you dead somewhere. i shouldn't have even let you get in the truck at the motel. i wish i'd pulled you out then and there and dragged you back to my room and shoved you in the shower before you even thought about leaving me. and i'm sorry for lying to you about the accident. i love you, but i knew you'd be angry and do something stupid so i was trying to stop it before anything happened, but you still went off and-"
that's when scott zoned out. you kept talking as you busied yourself with placing the last sterile-strip on his forehead, checking the rest of him for anymore cuts or blood that needed cleaning and shoving all the used wipes and rubbish in a bag and closing the first aid kit that still laid open on his lap. he caught javi's eyes from behind you, both the men staring at each other with wide eyes as they registered what you had just said. he's not thinking of anything, no rebuttal or teasing remark, the only thing on rotation in his head being 'i love you. i love you. i love you.’
scott doesn't know whether you're still talking or cleaning his blood off of your hands, he doesn't care as he grabs your chin and pulls your forward, his lips immediately finding yours as he puts all of his energy into kissing you. everything drowns out in that moment: the rain, your anxiety, scott's injuries, the wrecked truck behind you, javi behind you. the only thing you can hear is the big, bright, blaring sound that is scott and his touch and the way his hands are tugging on your hips to bring you closer to him. you stumble forward, catching yourself on his shoulders, ignoring the wet fabric of his shirt and the blood that's probably staining the pure white.
his lips are soft and the feelings he's pouring into the kiss make up for the missed moments this morning and the events of the day. his hands are still on your hips, fingers tracing the waistband of your trousers as your own hands run down his chest, resting on his thighs as you lean closer to him and press yourself further into the kiss. your fingers trace the seams of his cargo pants pocket.
"i should have known you guys were doing it." javi eventually called out over the rain, making both of you pull away from the other and giggle slightly as scott's forehead rested on your own. neither of you argued, realising the secret was well and truly out by now and it wasn't something you could, or wanted to, hide anymore.
you leaned away from him, looking over his face and feeling the hearts in your eyes as you did so. he was smiling up at you, the same gaze reflecting back at you as you looked into his baby blues that you loved so much.
"guess it's out the bag now, huh?" he commented, making you shake your head at his little joke.
"guess it's out the bag now." you agreed, pulling away from him to get into the front of the truck, making sure he'd pulled on his seatbelt before closing the door.
"how long?" javi asked, no malice in his voice.
"only a few months," you smiled, seeing the knowing look in his eyes as he stood with his arms crossed in front of you, rain still falling around you both. "thank you for coming with me."
"someone's gotta save his ass when he gets all grumpy, i'm just glad i've got a partner to do it with now." you just laughed at that, moving towards the passenger door as javi walk around to the drivers side. when you both got in, scott leaned forward from the backseat, one hand on both of your seat shoulders.
"i heard that."
"and i meant it."
you couldn't help the smile on your face, looking between javi and scott as they stared each other down. javi turned over the engine, still glaring at scott before pulling away and looking ahead at the road. it was still raining, but not as heavy as earlier. the road ahead of you was clearer than on your way out, just puddles and standing water covered the ground.
you looked behind yourself, watching the wrecked truck get further away before looking over at scott. he was still leant forward slightly, already showing a closed-lip smile as he caught your eye. your face mirrored his expression, moving forward to place a light kiss on his lips and then his cheek then shuffling around to face forward again. his right arm reached forward towards you, his hand grasping yours as he squeezed it three times. it was a comfort having him touching you, even in such a little way, and you cradled your joint hands in your lap.
the drive back was quiet, javi no longer having any jabs to make at the two of you and just wanting to go to bed after such a long day. he didn't realise that it was going to end with saving his friends life and finding out that he had a partner. but anyway, you were clearly happy with each other, so what more could javi want?
as the motel came into view, you could see that the majority of the group were stood outside, all in various states of undress as they waited anxiously for the three of you to get back. kate was the first person to run over to the truck, pulling open the passenger door and looking you over before turning her attention to javi getting out of the driver's side.
"i'm okay," you nodded at her, jumping out of the truck and closing the door. "it's scott you want to be worried about." she grunted slightly at that, moving back from you to let you head towards the motel. however, she did look over in scott's direction and see his bandaged forehead and blood over his shirt. at that, she gave him a sympathetic smile as he made his way over to you.
without warning, scott grabbed your hand, pulling you away from javi, kate and the rest of the team, up the stairs of the motel and towards your room. everyone just gawked at you as you passed, some stunned to silence and others muttering as they noticed your linked hands. kate looked over questioningly at javi, who replied with a shrug of his shoulders and a quick, "i had to watch them make out, be grateful it's just that."
scott ruffled around his pockets for the spare key card he had to your room, allowing you enough time to shout a 'goodnight!' to everyone before (literally) being dragged into your room and hearing the door lock.
at the end of the day, the only place you wanted to be was either with scott or in his arms. after the hectic day you'd just had, you ended it with your back against your room's door, scott towering over you as his hands grabbed at your hips, forehead falling onto yours. you were definitely breathing in the same air, but in that moment you didn't care; you were both alive, with only a few scratches, and you couldn't be more grateful for that in your line of work.
"thank you," voice only above a whisper as he broke the silence. "thank you for coming to save me. i should have said it earlier: i love you. i know it's only been a few months, but i felt like this before i showed up at your door that night." his hands came up to cup your cheeks, your own resting on his chest where you could feel his rapid heartbeat. "i've never felt like this for anyone, and i don't want to feel like this for anyone else but you."
"scott-" you gasped, your next sentence being cut off by his lips on yours. it was soft and gentle, something scott had been with you before, but this was different. it was a show of his love and adoration, his lips moving perfectly with yours as you tasted everything that was scott. he took over your mind and filled your senses and you wouldn't have it any other way.
"let's shower, hum?" he barely moved away from your lips as he spoke, quickly closing the gap again and kissing you once more.
"yes please." you managed to respond between his pecks, feeling scott's smile as he pulled you backwards and towards the small bathroom.
the only noise in the bathroom was the humming of the motel lights and the running water, heating up as you and scott undressed each other carefully. leaving your wet and dirty clothes in a pile together, you were cautious of his cuts and the plasters on his face, pealing his black undershirt off his body with the upmost care. before stepping under the shower, he cupped your face and kissed you again, holding his lips against yours for a few seconds. you grabbed his wrists in response, stepping towards the shower and pulled him along with you.
both of you were gentle under the water, lathering shampoo into the others' hair and trying to not get any suds in your eyes. you laughed at each other intermittently, watching as scott put on too much product and ended up with bubbles all over him. you took care in scrubbing his body clean, watching over his scratches as you kissed each new one you saw. scott could only watch, mesmerised by your kindness and love. he did the same for you until you were both clean and rinsed of the day.
after stepping out, you wrapped each other in the white towels, your hands tracing scott's chest as you stared into his gorgeous blue eyes. how lucky were you to have this man in front of you? despite his attitude sometimes, he could have been plucked straight from the angels and you'd be none the wiser. the amount of love you had for him was immeasurable, and it was only going to grow the longer you were together.
like the shower, you both got changed in the quiet, stealing glances as you dressed yourself in one of scott's t-shirts you'd stolen previously and he found some shorts he didn't realise he'd left the other day. you slipped under the covers first, settling down into the sheets as you waited patiently with open arms.
"come to bed, baby." you cooed as he started to sort the clothes in the bathroom. you could see how tired and drained he was, and you were desperate for a cuddle with him.
"the clothes, sweetheart-"
"leave them, they'll be there tomorrow."
"but-"
"scott," you pressed, sitting up to look at him. "i don't care about the clothes, i want you to come to bed and rest. please." the puppy dog eyes that you flashed him worked yet again. he dropped the clothes, turned off the lights and made his way over to you.
he laid on his back, sheets covering him as you shuffled into his side, wrapping around his body like a koala and resting your head on his shoulder. it was peaceful, safe, warm. you could lightly feel scott's heartbeat, hear him breathing, feel his warmth, all as a reminder that the was here with you and not in a ditch two miles down the road.
"i think it was your missing gift that did this." he muttered, still staring at the ceiling as you sat up slightly.
"my what?" you giggled, not realising what he was saying.
"your gifts, the little things you put in my cargo pants pocket each morning. i think they mean more to me than i realise, and the one day that i don't get one, all this shit happens."
"so, you're saying this is my fault?" you smirked, watching as his head whipped around to look at you with a worried expression.
"what? no, no! i didn't- you're messing with me." he saw your face and stopped his rant before it started, having should have realised that you'd tease him like that. "i just mean that i love your little gifts and i love that you think you're sneaking them without me realising. but i do. i have everything you've ever given me in my bag. did you want any of those lip glosses back, by the way? i think you've staked your claim on me now."
you laughed loudly at that, head falling between his neck and shoulder as your whole body shook at his words. scott just smiled, wrapped his arms around you tighter and pulled your body on top of his own.
"well, i'm glad you like them." you managed to get out between giggles, pressing a kiss onto each of his cheeks.
"i love them. i love how obsessed you are with my cargo pants pockets." his words made you blush, wanting to bury yourself back into his skin, but also not wanting to look away from his beaming smile and bright eyes. up close like this, you realised how much emotion was hidden in his eyes, something only you get to see, everyone else be damned.
you ran a hand through his damp hair, the waves and curls that he usually hid coming out in full force without the restriction of his hat. his hands traced up and down your sides, dipping under the hem of your shirt every so often to feel your soft skin there. you explored in your own way, clinging on to the back of his neck and shoulders as you confessed one last thing for the night.
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summary: it’s been this way since college—you drink, get drunk, you fight, and then you fuck. and now you’re chasing storms in rival crews, slipping in and out of motel rooms between tornado sirens, swearing every morning after that this time was the last time. but denial gets heavier, tyler gets suspicious, and jealousy hits harder than any storm. and suddenly you’re realising… maybe it was never just sex. (based on this song)
notes: this took so long and it turned into a character study, but oh my goodness, i love it so much. i honestly love this man, this character, with all my heart and writing this was so much fun. you have no idea! i'm sorry it's so long but please give it a chance, it's probably my favourite thing i've written??? and as always, please let me know what you think! (i also made a whole playlist)
warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, italics, mentions of drunk sex, lots of tension and banter, lots of denial, jealousy, a little angst, some likely incorrect storm science (and a lot of lines stolen directly from both twister movies), lots of arguing, it gets a lil dramatic (but in a good way), and SMUT (making out, dirty-ish talk, unprotected p in v, and kind of rough? also don't come for me if some parts get repetitive, smut is hard) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!
word count: 11418 (28087)
‧₊˚✧ PART ONE ‧₊˚✧
“Boone!” you shout, slamming the motel room door shut. “If you ever leave your nasty wet socks in my bag again, I will injure you so badly you’ll never be able to even think about having kids.”
You stomp halfway across the parking lot to where Tyler and Boone are standing beside the truck, inspecting the damage from a rogue tree branch during yesterday’s chase. You stop a few feet from them, ball the wet socks in your hand, and hurl them as hard as you can at a very startled-looking Boone. Your aim isn’t great, though—and they hit the front of the truck with a splat.
“Morning, sunshine,” Tyler says sarcastically.
You fold your arms and scowl. “Don’t be a dick.”
He huffs a short laugh. “Good to know yesterday’s mood hasn’t changed.”
“What do you mean yesterday?” Boone asks as he peels his socks off the hood. “She’s been like this for weeks.”
“Been like what?” you snap, turning your glare on him.
He gives a small shrug, edging closer to Tyler as if that’ll protect him. “Angry.”
Your frown deepens. “I haven’t been angry.”
Tyler scoffs. “Yeah? Then why’d you call me a moron yesterday for misreading a hook echo.”
You roll your eyes. “Because this is your job, Tyler—you should know how to do it. And you should definitely know the difference between a hook and ground clutter. So maybe next time, try looking at the velocity scan before you start declaring touchdowns.”
“Ouch,” Boone mutters, turning away to hide his laughter.
But Tyler doesn’t react. He just looks at you—eyes narrowed, jaw set, shoulders tight. He doesn’t look upset or angry, just... irritated. Tired. Like he’s hanging on to the last thread of his patience, and you’re walking it like a circus performer on a tightrope.
“Look,” he finally says, voice dangerously calm, “I get it. Something happened, you don’t want to talk about it—that’s fine. But stop taking it out on us. Stop taking it out on the people who care about you. If you want to be angry, be angry. But maybe try being angry at the person who hurt you—not your friends.”
Your heart thuds faster, harder, almost painful against your ribs.
You swallow hard. “I don’t—I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Boone turns back around slowly, brows drawn—like he’s only just realising there might be something deeper behind the way you’ve been acting lately.
“Yes,” you mutter through your teeth, before turning sharply on your heel.
You march back toward your room, ignoring the looks from Dani and Dexter standing nearby. You slam the door the second you step inside and fall back against it, your head hitting the wood with a dull thud that echoes in the quiet room. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the stinging behind them to stop. You’re not going to cry—that would be stupid. There’s nothing to cry about.
You’re not upset. You’re not taking anything out on anyone. Because that would mean there’s something to take out—something you’re avoiding, pushing down, pretending isn’t there. Which isn’t true. Obviously.
You’re fine. Just... tired. Exhausted from all the travelling, all the chasing. From not sleeping well on the crappy motel mattresses.
And the dreams.
God, the dreams.
The ones that pull you under the second you close your eyes. That have you tossing and turning, sweating through the sheets, waking up tangled and breathless, panting his name like you’re afraid you’ll forget it.
It’s been two weeks and four days since you last saw him—not that you’re counting. Not that it matters.
It was the same day you left his motel room that morning that Tyler told everyone to be packed and ready to hit the road by afternoon. He wanted to reach Amarillo by nightfall and beat any other chasers headed that way to the decent motels.
You didn’t argue. You just did what you were told. You packed, checked out, climbed into the truck, and didn't look back.
You've seen plenty of other chasers around Amarillo in the past two weeks—locals, freelancers, YouTube fans that have no idea what they’re doing—but you haven’t seen any StormPAR trucks. Not that you’ve been looking. You haven’t. You’ve just... noticed. You’re observant, that’s all.
And anyway, space is good. A little distance is a good thing. You and Scott can't get along at the best of times, and you know that seeing his face right now would turn your bad mood into something catastrophic.
Because yeah, you’ve been a little moody lately—but it has nothing to do with anything except late nights, too much driving, and unpredictable motel shower water pressure. You’re just tired. Burnt out. Everyone gets like this at some point during storm season. Everyone gets a little moody.
Right?
“Wind’s shifting!” Tyler’s shout cuts through your thoughts, sharp and sudden.
You blink, disoriented—the motel walls replaced by Tyler’s truck cab and screaming wind. The sky above is bruised grey and heavy in every direction.
The truck lurches over a dirt shoulder, tires skimming the gravel as Tyler yells something about the gust front. Wind slams against the cab, rattling everything in its path, and your hands grip the edge of the dashboard tighter than you thought possible.
“Tyler!” Kate shouts from the back, voice tight. “The gust front—it’s moving too fast!”
“It’s fine!” he yells back, eyes fixed out the windshield, knuckles white on the wheel. “We need to intercept this cell before it passes! Stay with me!”
Your stomach twists as you glance back at Boone and Kate, biting down the words you want to throw at Tyler. Boone is wide-eyed and grinning, one hand on his camera while the other fumbles with his harness. Kate’s brows are drawn tight as she stares out the window, clearly assessing the conditions with those magical meteorology powers of hers.
You look back at Tyler, biting your tongue so hard you can taste copper. You’re already wound tight, but his typical recklessness is making you more nervous than usual today.
“Tyler, slow down!” you snap, leaning forward. “We’re not driving into this blind! You can’t just—”
“We’re not blind!” he cuts you off, teeth gritted. “We have a window, and if we miss it, it’s gone!”
“A window?!” you bark. “You’re trying to barrel us into a storm unprepared—I’d rather miss it then get caught in something bigger than we can handle!”
He slams a hand against the wheel. “This is our job, remember? Storms are unpredictable—that's the deal. If you want out, then get out, because I’m not babysitting!”
“Babysitting?!” you echo, incredulous. “I don’t need babysitting! I’m just trying to make sure we get out of this alive.”
The truck skids over a loose patch of gravel and Boone yelps from the back—not in panic, but excitement.
You freeze, heart hammering, adrenaline slicing through you as you remember the last time you saw Scott on a chase. When you shouted at him that you didn’t need a babysitter. The roar of the wind, the grind of the tires, the way your lungs can’t seem to draw a full breath—it’s all too much.
Tyler’s eyes flick to yours, sharp and determined. “Focus,” he says. “Just do your job and focus.”
You exhale hard, chest tight, hands still trembling. “Focus,” you mutter, shaking your head as you twist in your seat to face the back. “Kate, pass me the laptop.”
She quickly passes it forward before gripping the handle above her door again. You balance it on your knees and open it, doing your best to stay steady while the truck hurtles across the field toward the darkest, angriest part of the sky—where the clouds are almost black and a funnel hangs halfway to the ground.
“Hook echo’s tightening,” you say, voice barely carrying over the howl of wind. “Right there, see? And that inflow notch is expanding. Gust front’s hitting thirty-five knots on the south edge. If it shifts right, we’re looking at touchdown in less than a minute.”
Tyler glances at you. “Velocity scan?”
“Winds maxing at sixty-two, convergence increasing on the northeast flank. If we keep parallel, we can stay in the safe intercept zone. But—” you pause, throat tight, “the debris ball signature’s spiking. That’s a heavy one. Might drop faster than radar’s showing.”
“Base inflow’s about to jump west,” Kate says, leaning over your shoulder. “Watch your right flank, Tyler.”
The cab rattles. Tyler’s grip on the wheel tightens, and you hold your breath. The funnel writhes as it inches toward the ground, doubling in width as the clouds above churn and growl. Panic knots low in your gut. You know this is your job. You know Tyler knows what he’s doing. But you’ve seen conditions like this spawn storms that level entire towns.
“Tyler,” you say, eyes fixed on the laptop screen. “I’m really sure about this one.”
“Boone!” he shouts, ignoring you. “Got the camera ready?”
“Hell yeah!” Boone calls from the back.
You scramble to get your harness over your shoulders and clipped in, eyes darting between the radar and the windshield. The patterns on the screen shift and swirl in real time, data blurring into chaos. You can barely look outside without nausea crawling up the back of your throat—it’s too dark, too violent. Hail slams against the windshield in sheets, debris whipping through the air, and just up ahead—way closer than you realised—the funnel is about to touch down.
Then—everything starts to blur.
Not the usual blur of adrenaline that comes with the chase. This is sharper. Heavier. Panic. Fear. Realisation.
Realisation that this is dangerous. That anything could happen. That if the storm doubles in size, if it shifts just a few degrees, you could be gone in seconds—and then you’d never see him again. Never tell him what you should’ve said that morning. Never admit the thing you’ve been trying so hard not to name.
Your breath catches, sharp and shaky, as a new kind of panic floods your chest. You snap the laptop shut, drop it into the footwell, and press yourself into your seat, gripping the harness straps so tight your knuckles ache.
There’s wind and rain and shouting. Boone’s cheering, Kate’s yelling something about wind speed, and Tyler’s got that wild grin plastered across his face as the tornado twists closer.
The truck jerks to a halt and Tyler hits the red button in the centre console. The augers deploy, burying into the ground, and the whole cab rattles with the force of the wind. You squeeze your eyes shut—for the first time since you started chasing, you really shut them, like maybe if you don’t look, it won’t hit.
The world becomes nothing but sound. The storm swallows everything—the roar of the wind, the drum of debris, the metallic groan of the truck. For a moment, it feels like you’re weightless, like the earth’s been ripped out from under you.
Somewhere through the noise, you hear Boone cheering. Tyler too. The faint whistle and pop of fireworks.
And then—just like that—it’s gone. The funnel thins, curls upward, and disappears into the clouds. The wind dies. The truck steadies. And the sky opens back up like it was never angry at all.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Your ears ring, your hands shake, your whole body is locked tight.
Then Boone’s laughter cuts through the quiet, loud and breathless. “Holy shit—did you see that?!” He slaps the back of Tyler’s seat. “That thing dropped! Full condensation, full rotation—that was insane!”
Tyler exhales hard through a grin, hands still locked on the wheel. “That’s what I’m talking about. That’s a chase. That’s how it’s done.”
“Beautiful,” Kate murmurs, eyes still fixed on the sky through the windshield. “She was beautiful. Clean funnel, perfect structure—God, I hope the drone caught it.”
You don’t say anything. You just sit there, chest still tight, the adrenaline draining slow and heavy from your veins. The world outside looks muted—flat light, torn-up grass, a half-collapsed fence line. The air smells like rain and ozone.
Boone’s still talking while Tyler nods along, grinning and laughing under his breath. Kate’s already got her phone out, no doubt trying to contact the others and compare data.
You sink lower in your seat, fingers slack against the harness buckle. The trembling in your hands hasn’t stopped yet, but no one seems to notice. Every laugh from the others feels too loud, too bright, and the jolt of the truck as Tyler starts the engine again makes your stomach lurch.
You stare out the window as he drives back across the field, the storm fading behind you, dissolving into the flat line of the horizon.
By the time you pull back into the motel lot, the light’s gone gold and the air smells like wet dirt. Tyler parks crooked, Boone’s still half-yelling about camera footage and fireworks, and you can’t unbuckle your belt fast enough.
You can breathe now—and move. And all the panic from before has turned into something sharper. Angrier. Something that’s getting worse the longer you have to listen to Tyler talk about how fantastic that chase was.
You slip quickly out of the truck, ignoring Kate when she calls your name, and start marching across the lot toward your room.
“Hey!” Tyler calls out behind you, voice raised over Boone’s laughter. “You not gonna help us unload?”
You don’t stop. The gravel crunches under your boots as you reach the door, keys clutched in your hand so tight the edges bite into your skin.
“Come on,” he says. “You're not still mad about the babysitting thing, are you?”
“Mad?” you snap, spinning on your heel. “I’m not mad, Tyler, I’m furious. You could’ve killed us back there!”
His expression shifts, confusion flickering across his face. “Killed—what are you talking about? We were fine.”
“Fine?” you laugh, sharp and breathless. “You were flooring it toward a funnel with zero visibility, no clear outflow boundary, and you call that fine?”
“It was fine,” he snaps back now, matching your volume. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing?”
“I think you get off on being reckless!”
He steps forward, incredulous. “Reckless? You were sitting next to me watching the same data! You didn’t say a damn thing until we were halfway in!”
“Because I thought you’d notice the damn rotation shifting!”
“Well, excuse me for focusing on not flipping the truck!”
Boone’s laughter fades somewhere in the background. Kate’s gone still, halfway out of the cab, eyes bouncing between the two of you. The others are somewhere off by the RV, just out of eyeshot but definitely still watching this mess unfold.
You shake your head, words tripping over each other. “You just—you don’t think, Tyler! You don’t think about what happens if you’re wrong! You just—you chase, you just go, like nothing could ever touch you, like—”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re invincible!”
He stares at you for a beat, then laughs—short, disbelieving. “You’re really losing it, you know that? Why are you taking this so personally?”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are!” he shouts over you now. “You’ve been on edge for weeks! Snapping at everyone, biting my head off every time I breathe—”
“Because you act like you know everything!”
“No—because you’re pissed at him!”
The words hit so loud and sudden the silence after feels like vacuum.
You blink. “What?”
Tyler’s chest rises hard as he steps forward, lowering his voice. “Scott. You’re pissed at Scott. Don’t act like this is about me.”
Your pulse hammers in your throat. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “That’s what I thought.”
You stand there, frozen, pulse pounding in your ears. You want to say something—anything. You want to tell him he’s wrong, you want to defend yourself, but you can’t. All you can do is feel your throat tighten and your eyes start to burn, and before you can start crying in front of your entire crew—you turn away.
You hurry back to your motel room, fumbling with the key before shoving the door open and slamming it behind you. The small window beside it rattles with the force.
Then you sink onto the edge of the bed, dragging in deep, uneven breaths. You’re not going to cry. You’re not. Not over a stupid argument, not because of what Tyler said, and definitely not because of him.
-
The next day, to your immense relief, no one’s acting out of the ordinary.
You spent the rest of yesterday holed up in your motel room, telling yourself not to cry and trying to catch up on some much-needed sleep. Then this morning, you woke up, showered, and went to the dining hall for breakfast like you normally would.
Boone greeted you with a grin, Lily sat beside you and started showing you drone footage from yesterday, and Kate asked for your take on today’s readings.
The only person who didn’t talk to you—didn't even look at you—was Tyler.
Not until now.
You’re sitting in the small courtyard at the side of the motel, laptop balanced on your knees, trying to focus on analysing storm patterns from past seasons to predict the next best city to move on to when—
“Hey.”
You glance up. “Hi.”
“Gonna yell at me again?”
You roll your eyes. “No.”
He grins. “Good.”
You look back down at your laptop, shifting a little on the uncomfortable wooden bench. Tyler drops down beside you, knees spread, arms draped over the back of the chair.
There’s a beat of quiet. Just the distant rumble of traffic and the wind moving through the trees.
Then—
“So... you’re in love with him?”
You choke—on absolutely nothing. Your laptop slips off your lap, and Tyler just barely catches it before it hits the ground.
“Whoa, careful.”
You cough for a moment, trying to get air back into your lungs.
Then you shoot him a look. “Why the fuck would you say that?”
He shrugs. “Because it’s obvious.”
Your pulse quickens. “How—how is it obvious?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He tips his head back, squinting up at the sky. “Maybe because you start tripping over your words every time someone mentions him. Or maybe it’s the way you two fight like its foreplay.” He tilts his head toward you now. “Or maybe it’s the fact that we haven’t seen him in weeks, and you’ve been acting like someone ripped out half your wiring.”
He pauses, waiting for you to say something—but you can’t. Your throat’s too tight.
“Or maybe,” he goes on, voice lower now, “it’s the way you look at him. Like he hung the moon, the stars, the goddamn sun. Like he’s the only thing you care about, and everyone else might as well not exist.”
Your breath catches. “Oh.”
He looks at you—for almost a full minute—just looks at you. You want to say something. You want to deny it, tell him he’s wrong. But you can’t.
Because he’s not.
“I don’t care, you know?” he says finally. “I mean, the guy’s a dick, but—you’ve known him longer than you’ve known me. And he knows you better than I do.” He snorts. “Actually, he knows you way better than I do.”
You swat his arm. “Hey!”
He laughs a little harder. “I’m just saying. Whatever the hell you two have been doing started way before I even met you, so you don’t have to hide it. If Scott’s what you want, then—”
“He’s not,” you say quickly—even though you know it’s a lie. “I mean, we had a thing, yeah, but it’s done. He’s not interested in anything more than sex.”
Tyler gags dramatically. “Sorry, sorry. I just—wasn’t prepared for you to actually say it.”
You roll your eyes, even though your lips twitch. “You’re a dick.”
“I know.” He moves his arm from the back of the chair to your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “I’m sorry.”
You tilt your head to look up at him. “For what?”
“Making you feel like you had to keep it a secret. And for exposing you in front of everyone yesterday.”
You let your head rest against his shoulder. “It’s fine. I’m sure most of them had it figured out anyway.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, except Boone.”
You laugh softly, letting your eyelids slip shut. You can feel his shoulders rise with a deep breath, then fall slowly, and for a second, you almost feel like you might—finally—let yourself cry.
“Come out tonight?”
Your eyes snap open. “What?”
“I was thinking of hitting the road tomorrow,” he says, “so the others wanted to check out that little dive around the corner for our last night in town.”
“Oh.” You sit up straight. “I don’t really feel—”
“Come on,” he sighs. “StormPAR aren’t even in town, he’s not going to be there. Just come out, don’t be grumpy, and have a good time with your crew.”
You’ve never been good at saying no to Tyler—so you nod, even though the last thing you want to do is go anywhere tonight. “Okay, fine. But I’m not staying late.”
He grins. “Didn’t say you had to.”
Then he puts your laptop back in your lap, stretches both arms out wide, and stands.
You tip your head to look up at him. “Childress or Lubbock?”
“Childress,” he says. “We’ll stay in Texas another couple weeks, then head back up north.”
You nod. “Okay.”
He nods too. You both smile—and then he’s gone.
But you can’t focus on the data anymore. Your eyes linger on the laptop, but the numbers and patterns blur. All you can think about is what you almost said—what came so close to the surface you could almost taste it. The words you didn’t speak. The truth you sidestepped so you wouldn’t have to admit how you really feel about Scott.
The next few hours pass in a blur of overthinking and denial. The usual.
You tell yourself that whatever you almost admitted to Tyler was just exhaustion and too much emotion talking. Then, while you’re in the shower, you remind yourself why anything you thought you might feel for Scott is a bad idea. You run through every argument, every sharp word, every frustration—and very carefully avoid the heated moments that make your chest ache.
You don’t miss him. You don’t. You miss the idea of him—the idea of intimacy. It’s not him. You’re just… lonely.
Yeah. That’s it. You’re lonely.
And then, as you step out of your motel room, ready to head to the bar, it hits you—how pathetic it is to prefer calling it loneliness over what it really is. To twist it into something small and safe instead of naming the thing that’s been sitting heavy in your chest for weeks now. Because admitting that it’s Scott… that it’s him… feels a little too much like falling.
“Ready?” Tyler asks.
You hesitate for a second, still half caught in your own head—then nod. Tyler slings an arm around your shoulders and steers you through the motel parking lot. He wasn’t lying when he said the bar was just around the corner—you can see the neon sign glowing as soon as you step out onto the street.
The others are already there when the two of you walk in, Tyler’s arm still draped over your shoulders. The place is packed for a Thursday, full of chasers and locals standing shoulder to shoulder. You have to admit he was right about wanting to beat the rush to Amarillo—the number of chasers in town has almost tripled since you first arrived.
You join your crew at a table beside the bar, taking the seat next to Kate while Tyler stays standing.
“Anyone need a drink?” he calls over the music and chatter.
Boone, Dexter, and Javi all order beers. Kate asks for a vodka soda, Lily for a cider. Then Tyler looks at you, brows raised.
“Just water,” you mutter.
“Water?” he echoes, sceptical.
You nod. “I don’t feel like drinking.”
Dani leans across the table, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead. “You feeling okay?”
You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth twitching. “I’m fine. Just not in the mood.”
Tyler catches your eye, smirking like an idiot—and you know exactly what he’s biting back. Some stupid joke about knowing exactly what would put you in the mood. But he knows better. He knows it’s too soon to joke about it.
So instead, he just nods and turns away, weaving between tables toward the bar at the back of the room.
It doesn’t take long for the conversation to move on—to the next week of chasing, of course. Boone doesn’t think Childress will have much to offer and says you should all just head back up to Kansas where the real action is. But Dexter disagrees—recent studies have shown Tornado Alley shifting lower. Then Kate pipes up with something a little too technical, making Boone sigh and start looking around for Tyler.
By the time he returns with a tray full of drinks, the table’s already deep in an argument about whether it’s even worth staying in Texas this late in the season.
You don’t pay much attention, though. You spend most of the next hour tracing condensation on your glass and trying not to think—at all—only tuning in when someone says your name. Then, when you finally look up, the sky outside the window has deepened into swirls of orange and blue.
“I think I’m going to head back,” you say, pushing your glass into the middle of the table.
Tyler’s head snaps toward you. “What? No! It’s not even late.”
You push your chair back. “And I said I wasn’t going to stay late.”
There’s a chorus of protests as you push to stand, shaking your head and avoiding everyone’s eyes. You already let Tyler coerce you into being here—you’re not about to let Boone’s puppy-dog eyes guilt you into staying.
Then—all at once—the table goes quiet.
“Shit,” Tyler mutters.
You look at him, frowning. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says—too fast.
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing—and he gives you a tight, unconvincing smile. You look around at the rest of the group, all of them suddenly finding something else to look at—their drinks, their hands, each other. Everyone except Boone, who's craning his neck to see past you toward the front door.
Your brows draw tighter as you glance over your shoulder—and your heart stops.
Your lungs seize. Your head spins. Your pulse thrums so loud in your ears you can’t hear anything else.
God. It’s pathetic.
You shouldn’t feel like this—it’s barely been three weeks.
But holy shit, you almost forgot how irritatingly gorgeous he is.
Your heart beats hard in your throat as you watch him step through the doorway, scanning the room. Not smiling. Not even close. Then his eyes catch yours—and he stops. Freezes mid-step. The man behind him frowns, muttering something as he steps aside. And then—
A woman.
She stops next to him, her hand sliding around his bicep as she looks up at him. Her lips move, but you can’t make out what she’s saying. Scott blinks—once, twice—then looks at her. His expression softens, and—
You’re going to be sick.
“I gotta—I—”
You can’t even finish the sentence before you’re moving. Not toward door like you’d originally planned—you can’t. He’s there. With her.
Instead, you weave through the tables toward the other side of the bar, slipping as fast as you can down the short corridor to the bathrooms. The second you make it into a cubicle, you fall back against the door and breathe. Just breathe. You’re not going to throw up. That would be stupid. Dramatic.
You’re not going to throw up. Not over Scott. Not just because he’s moved on. There was nothing even going on between you. Nothing serious. It’s not like you ever went out together, it’s not like he ever took you on a date. Not like this. Not like with her.
You let out a groan, dragging your hands over your face before pushing off the door. This is ridiculous. You need to pull yourself together.
With a deep breath, you turn and unlock the cubicle. You step up to the basin, wash your hands for a little longer than necessary, then stare at your reflection. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes a little red, your lips cracked and wind-burnt—but that’s what happens when you spend your days chasing storms.
That girl—the one he’s with—she’s gorgeous. She doesn’t look flushed or tired or like she’s spent the last month racing through torrential wind and rain just to get close to a tornado. She looks like she’s got it all together. Everything figured out. She probably knows the exact shade of foundation to match her skin, and exactly how to braid her hair for perfect heatless curls.
“Fuck,” you sigh, shaking your head as you turn away from the mirror.
You don’t need to think about it. You don’t need to waste brain space on this. He’s moved on—and so have you. You’ve both moved on. It’s fine. It’s a good thing.
With another sigh that rattles your chest, you head out of the bathroom. You keep your eyes down as you turn down the short hallway, back toward the noise—music, chatter, clinking glasses. But you only make it a few steps before—
“Oh! Sorry, hon! Didn’t see you there.”
Your stomach drops. Of course it’s her.
You force a tight smile. “That’s okay, my fault.”
She waves a hand. “Don’t be silly, darlin’.”
She doesn’t even know. She doesn’t know who you are. She doesn’t know that you’re in love with her new boyfriend.
Your heart lurches into your throat. Fuck. Did you just name it?
“I—I’m just gonna—”
You don’t finish before stepping around her, blinking hard to keep from crying. You’re not going to cry. Not here. You push back through the crowd, weaving between people until you’re standing in front of your friends again.
“I’m heading out,” you say, keeping your voice even.
Tyler looks up at you, green eyes wide. “Are you okay? Do you want me to—”
“I’m fine. Just tired. You stay.”
You glance around the table, plastering on the most convincing smile you can manage. Then you nod, turn on your heel, and head straight for the door.
The second you step out of the bar, you drag in a deep breath. It takes a moment for you to remember which way the motel is—to remember how to think straight. Your hands are shaking, your heart’s beating too fast—but you’ve escaped. You’re out. And tomorrow, you’ll tell Tyler that wherever StormPAR are, you can’t be. Just for this season. Just until you’ve had enough time to get over whatever the hell this is. Or was.
You only just make it to the front gate of the motel when a low voice makes you flinch.
“Wait.”
You stop. Your stomach twists as you turn slowly to face him.
And it’s ridiculous—really—how you suddenly feel like you can breathe for the first time in three weeks. Just because he’s standing here. Just because he’s almost close enough to touch.
“What do you want?” you ask, your voice steady—guarded.
His brows pull together. “You disappeared.”
“What do you mean?”
“For three weeks,” he says. “You just left that morning and disappeared.”
You stare at him. “So?”
“So?” he echoes, incredulous. “So it felt kind of personal.”
You roll your eyes. “Trust me, Scott. Nothing between you and me was ever personal.”
He scoffs. “Yeah. I’m starting to get that.”
Your jaw tightens, teeth clenching. You want to bite back—to yell, or tell him to go back to the overly friendly bottle-blonde waiting for him in the bar—who, by the way, isn’t even his type. But you don’t. You can’t. Because if you open those floodgates, you’re not sure you’d ever be able to close them.
So instead, you turn away, eyes fixed on your motel room door across the lot.
“Why do you always walk away when it gets too real?” he calls after you.
And that does it.
You spin back around. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
He takes two steps toward you, closing the distance again. “You know exactly what it means.”
“No, Scott, I don’t,” you snap. “Because I’m not walking away from something real, I’m walking away from something dangerous. So why don’t you just turn around and go back to your little girlfriend, since you clearly had such a hard time moving on.”
He frowns. “My what?”
“You heard me,” you mutter, turning back toward the motel.
His footsteps follow. “Yeah, I heard you, but I’m having a hard time—”
“She’s not even your type.”
“My type?”
You press your lips together, ignoring him as you march faster across the lot.
“What’s my type, then?” he presses, easily keeping pace.
“I don’t know, Scott, but I know it’s not a bubbly blonde buckle bunny from the south.”
He laughs—dry, humourless. “Well, maybe I should try something different. Because my type hasn’t really been working out for me lately.”
You stop walking and spin around. “Good!” you shout, glaring up at him. “Try something different. Go fuck half of Texas for all I care.”
His brows shoot up, realisation flickering behind his eyes. “Oh my God, you’re—”
“Don’t say it,” you warn.
But he does anyway. “You’re jealous.”
Your eyes narrow, voice dropping low. “Why would I be jealous?”
He shrugs. “You tell me.”
You huff out a breath, shaking your head. “God, you’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re overreacting.”
“I’m not—” You stop yourself, dragging in a deep breath. “You know what? This is ridiculous.”
Then you turn back around and keep walking, barely ten feet from your motel room door now.
“Come on,” he sighs. “Why can’t we just talk?”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Clearly.”
“So why are you still following me?”
“Because I want the truth.”
Your stomach flips. “What truth?”
“About us!” he bursts out. “About this. About why you hate me so much. I just want—”
You stop so fast he nearly runs into you. “Why do you even care?”
He stares at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Both of you are breathing hard, chests rising and falling in sync. And for a second, you almost think he’s going to kiss you—but he doesn’t. He just takes a small step back.
“How do you think I feel seeing you with Owens all the time?”
You blink. “What?”
“How do you think it feels watching you two together? You’re always so close, he’s always touching you, and you only started hiding us when you started chasing with him. How do you think that’s supposed to make me feel?”
You frown. “But it’s just—it's Tyler. There’s never been anything going on between us, we’re just—”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not jealous,” Scott says, voice so low and rough that for a second, you’re almost sure you imagined it.
Your breath catches.
“But it—” The words stick in your throat. “It was just… just sex.”
He steps forward. “Just sex, huh?”
“Yes,” you bite out. “That’s all it ever was. Déjà vu. We drink, get drunk, we fight and—and then we fuck.”
He steps closer again. “That’s what you think this is? You really think I needed to get drunk to—” He stops himself, jaw tight. “I wasn’t drunk, okay? I never was.”
You stumble back until you hit the door. “What?”
“You think—” he leans in, voice low but steady, “—I would want to risk forgetting a single second with you?”
You suck in a sharp breath—a gasp almost, but it sticks. “Scott, I—”
You’re not even sure what you want to say—or if you could say anything right now that would make any sense. Because he’s so close. He’s staring at you with those eyes that make your knees weak. And he’s admitting things. Things you’ve been too scared to admit. Things you’ve shoved so far down you hoped they’d suffocate. Things you’re still not sure you could ever say out loud.
“You weren’t drunk,” you whisper—more to yourself than him.
“Only once,” he admits. “The first time. In college.”
Your eyes widen, your voice unsteady. “Then why—”
“Because every time I’m around you,” he says, his voice rough now, “I forget how to think straight. And being drunk felt easier to blame than…” He trails off, but he doesn’t have to finish—you can feel the rest of it hanging in the space between you, charged and waiting to ignite.
“Than what?” you ask, even though you already know.
His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up again. “Than wanting you like this.”
You don’t realise you’ve stopped breathing until he’s right there—so close that if either of you so much as exhaled, you’d touch.
“And I’m sorry,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I know it was supposed to be just sex, but… I’m in love with you.” He drags in a shaky breath. “And you can’t stand it, because you know you love me too.”
Your head spins. You can’t breathe, can’t think, so you just—move. A blur of heat and breath and too much wanting. Your fingers find his shirt, fisting in the fabric as you drag him down to you, and the second his mouth hits yours it’s chaos. Not soft, not careful—just collision.
He groans against your lips, one hand braced on the door beside your head, the other gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his hold. You pull him closer anyway, catching his bottom lip between your teeth, and that’s all it takes. The sound he makes vibrates through you—low, desperate—and then he’s kissing you back like he’s been starving for you.
The door rattles behind you when he presses you harder against it, his hand sliding up the back of your neck to angle your mouth under his. You clutch at him, fingers digging into his hair, and it feels like finally—finally—you’ve stopped fighting gravity.
It’s not hazy this time. Not blurred or half-remembered. Every breath, every scrape of teeth, every pulse of heat between you hits clean and sharp, like waking up.
Your lips part just long enough for him to murmur against your mouth, voice low and ragged. “Unlock it.”
You fumble blindly for the doorknob, lips still brushing his. “You’re bossy,” you mutter between kisses.
A low chuckle rumbles through his chest. “You like it when I’m bossy.”
Then his mouth drags along your jaw, hot and deliberate, leaving open-mouthed kisses across your skin and down your neck. A helpless sigh slips out of you as your head tips back, hitting the door with a soft thud.
You’re still fumbling with the key, using every ounce of self-control you have to focus on it. And by some miracle—with one hand still clutching him like you’ll float away if you let go—the key slides into the lock. You turn it impatiently, knees weakening every time his lips brush a new spot on your neck, and shove the door open.
You would have stumbled if it weren’t for Scott—his hands tight at your waist, steadying you, pulling you into him. Your arms loop around his neck, holding on as he guides you backward into the room. His mouth finds yours again, hotter this time, hungrier, stealing whatever focus you had left until you hear the door click shut behind him.
Then you push him back against it—hard—hips colliding, chest to chest, his hands gliding up your ribs to pull you impossibly closer.
“You know,” you whisper, sliding your fingers into his hair and knocking his StormPAR cap to the floor, “you really shouldn’t be so cocky.”
You press him harder into the door, mouths still colliding, breath mixing and breaking between kisses. His hands slip beneath your shirt, fingers spreading over your waist like he’s relearning you by touch.
“I’m not cocky,” he says, smirking against your mouth as his palms drag higher. “I’m right.”
You scoff, even though your breath stutters. “About what? About me being—” The word catches, sticking in your throat. “In lo—” You choke on it and shake your head. “Just don’t—don’t assume things.”
He pulls back just enough to see you, his smile turning slow, wicked—confident in a way that lights every nerve in your body like a struck match. “Assume?” he echoes, voice rough. “I don’t need to assume.”
You open your mouth to bite back, but he beats you to it, leaning in until his lips graze your cheek.
“You want to know how I know?” he murmurs.
Before you can answer, his hands slide over your ribs—fingers slipping just beneath your bra, right over the spot where your breath always shortens, where your pulse always jumps.
And just like he knew it would, your breath shatters.
“That,” he whispers, voice a low, satisfied rasp. “You make that sound every time I touch you here.”
You glare at him, but your voice comes out breathless, shaky. “That—that doesn’t mean anything.”
He hums, unconvinced. “No? Then what about when I kiss you—”
He tilts your chin up with two fingers and presses his lips to the edge of your jaw, barely there, soft and deliberate.
“—like this?” he finishes against your skin.
Your whole body arches into him, your grip tightening at the back of his neck as a helpless gasp leaves your lips despite every intention you had of staying composed. “Scott—”
His voice drops, warm and smug right against your ear. “You always melt when I do that. Even when you pretend you don’t.”
You try to step back, but he follows, crowding you gently, refusing to lose the inch of space he’s reclaimed.
“And then there’s this,” he continues, lifting his head until his eyes meet yours.
His thumb drags along your cheekbone—slow, confident, intimate in a way that makes your knees tremble.
“The way you look at me,” he murmurs. “All fiery… pretending it’s hate.”
Your chest tightens, painfully.
“It’s not hate.”
You inhale sharply, but the denial—whatever defence you meant to give—dies on your tongue.
“Go on,” he whispers, leaning in until your foreheads nearly touch, breath mingling with yours. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
He waits—steady, unrushed—his expression soft but unmovable, like he already knows you won’t.
You can’t.
Instead you grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him into you—hard.
The kiss lands with no hesitation, no doubt, no restraint. It’s heat and teeth and breath, the kind of kiss that feels like finally exhaling after weeks of holding it in. He groans into your mouth, the sound low and relieved, and the next thing you know his hands are on your hips, hauling you closer like he’s done pretending he has self-control.
You chase his mouth, impatient and shaking. Your fingers claw into his shoulders, urging, demanding, pressing your body against his, and that’s all it takes for something in him to snap.
He lifts you.
It’s effortless, like he’s done it a thousand times, like he never stopped remembering the exact way your body fits against his. Your legs wrap around him before you even think about it, and he doesn’t stop kissing you as he crosses the room—stumbling once when you tug his hair, laughing breathlessly against your mouth—but never breaking contact.
When his knees hit the mattress edge, he lowers you onto the bed—slow enough not to drop you, but quick enough that the frame gives a soft, startled creak beneath you. You sink into it, pulling him down with you, but he braces one hand beside your head, holding himself just above you—chest heaving, breath brushing your lips.
He looks half-wrecked already. Flushed, pupils blown, hair a mess from your hands.
And he’s smiling—just a little—like you’ve undone him in exactly the way he always wanted.
His other hand skims up your ribs, slow and sure, and your whole body arches toward him before you can think better of it. He notices—of course he notices—his gaze dropping to where you’re already reaching for him, hungry, impatient.
“Slow down,” he murmurs, even though his voice betrays him—rough, shaking, like he’s fighting the same losing battle you are.
You fist your hands in his shirt and drag him closer anyway, mouths brushing, breaths tangling, barely an inch of space left between you except for the one he’s holding onto like a prayer.
“Not a chance,” you whisper.
And he breaks—completely.
His lips find yours again and his hands are suddenly everywhere—your waist, your ribs, your hips—touching you like he’s trying to relearn every inch of you at once. But you don’t have the patience for him to take his time. You hook your fingers into the hem of his shirt and yank—once, hard—breaking the kiss long enough for him to inhale sharply.
“Off,” you whisper, breathless and demanding.
He huffs out something between a laugh and a groan, sitting back on his knees just enough to pull the fabric over his head. The second it’s gone you’re reaching for him again, palms sliding over warm skin, tracing the shape of him like you can’t decide where to touch first.
“Impatient,” he murmurs, eyes dark as they sweep over your face.
You grab him by the waistband of his jeans and haul him down to you again. “You have no idea.”
His mouth crashes onto yours, all heat and teeth, swallowing the noise you make when his hand slips beneath your shirt and skims up your stomach. He pauses there, fingers flexing like he’s checking if you’re really letting him touch you sober.
You lift your hips in answer—and that’s all he needs.
He drags your shirt up, slow for a single second—like he wants to see you, memorise you—and then impatience wins. It ends up somewhere on the floor, forgotten, and he’s kissing down your throat, across your collarbone, soaking in every sound you can’t hold back.
Your hands slide into his hair, tugging just enough to pull a quiet, broken groan from him. His breath stutters against your skin.
“Do you have any idea,” he murmurs against the hollow of your throat, “how much I think about you? How much I need you?”
You tighten your grip in his hair, dragging his face back up to yours. “Scott,” you warn—because if he keeps talking like that, you’re going to lose what little composure you have left.
He smirks, breath warm against your skin. “Yeah?”
“Shut up and kiss me.”
So he does—messy, hungry—his hands sliding down your sides, gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him as his hips roll down into yours. The heat between you sparks sharp and dangerous, the kind of pull that makes thinking impossible.
“Tell me to slow down,” he says, voice low and strained, “and I will.”
“Don’t,” you mutter, fingers already fumbling with his belt.
And he must feel how desperate you are because he lets out a low, wrecked sound and yanks your hands away—only to finish the job himself, fast, metal clinking, leather sliding loose.
You reach for him again, dragging him back down into another kiss—hot, breathless, all teeth and need. His hands are everywhere at once—your ribs, your waist, the dip of your hips—touching you like he can’t decide where to start because he wants all of you at once.
He groans when your hands slide down his stomach and tug at his jeans, and then he’s moving—shoving them down over his hips, kicking them off without breaking the kiss. The mattress dips under the frantic movement, the two of you practically mauling each other in your rush.
His hands find your waistband next, hooking into the fabric and dragging it down your thighs with a desperate sort of impatience, like he’s seconds away from completely losing his mind. You gasp when his fingers brush your skin—breath catching, back arching off the mattress without a single thought behind it except him. Just him.
Your clothes end up wherever his shirt did—floor, chair, anywhere—because he’s already coming back over you, warm skin sliding against yours as his mouth finds the line of your throat again. You breathe out a shaky, helpless sound that makes his grip on your hips tighten, like he’s barely holding himself together.
Your hands skim down his back, nails grazing just enough to make his breath stutter. He kisses you harder at that—like you’ve lit a fuse under him, like he can’t get close enough fast enough.
But then—he pulls back.
Just enough to look at you—really look at you—his chest rising hard and unsteady.
“Come here,” he breathes, voice gone low and rough, like he doesn’t know what to do with how badly he wants you.
You reach for him instantly, pulling him back down to you.
“Fuck,” he whispers into your skin, somewhere between your jaw and your neck. “You feel—” His breath shudders. “I missed you.”
Your hands roam blindly over his shoulders, his back, the lines of him you’ve traced a hundred times but somehow forgot how badly you needed. His skin is hot under your palms, every muscle taut, trembling like he’s holding himself back by a thread.
“Scott,” you breathe, and the way his name leaves your mouth—shaking, wanting—completely undoes him.
He drags his mouth over yours—rough, urgent, hungry—kissing you like he’s been waiting weeks for this moment and can’t bear to waste another second. His weight shifts, settling between your thighs, and you feel the exact moment he loses the last of his composure.
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
Your eyes roll back—whether it’s from the ridiculous line or the way you can feel his length pressed firmly against your core, you don’t know. All you do know is that if he doesn’t hurry up and fuck you, you might actually lose your mind.
“If you stop, I’ll kill you,” you breathe, head tipping back as his lips drag down your neck.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin and making your breath stutter. You’ve had enough teasing for one night.
You shove at his shoulders—not hard, just enough to make him pull back with a confused frown. Then you arch your back, reach for your bra strap, unclip it, and toss it aside. His eyes go dark as they sweep over your bare skin—but you still don’t reach for him.
Instead, you hook your fingers into the waistband of your panties and push them down, shimmying out of them until they hit the floor with the rest of your clothes. Then you meet Scott’s eyes, the corner of your mouth lifting in a slow, deliberate challenge.
“Your turn.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He pushes up onto his knees and shoves his boxers down, the hard length of him springing free—and your thighs clench before you can stop them. He notices immediately, that cocky smirk tugging at his mouth in a way you’ve always hated loving.
His boxers hit the floor, and he leans back over you, mouth closing around your nipple without warning. You gasp, arching into him, fingers tangling in his hair. He nips gently, then soothes the spot with his tongue, making heat pool low in your belly.
One of his hands grips your hip, pinning you to the bed as he drags his mouth across your chest to your other nipple. He sucks it between his lips, and the noise that rips out of you is downright obscene—enough to make his mouth curl into a smile against your skin.
“Scott,” you plead, nails dragging down his back. “Please.”
“Please what, baby?” he murmurs against your skin.
You whine—actually whine. “Please fuck me.”
He lets out a laugh that breaks into a groan as you lift your hips into his. His cock is impossibly hard between you, hot and heavy, and you angle your hips until he slides against you—just enough to make him tremble, his arms almost giving out as his breath stutters against your lips.
“So impatient,” he whispers.
His mouth finds yours again, messy and desperate, and you groan into him, your hands roaming up and down his back, clinging, pulling him closer as your hips move—frantic for any friction at all.
“You gotta be still, sweetheart,” he says, one hand locking around your hip.
He holds you down against the mattress, putting almost all his weight there as his other hand dips between your bodies. Your eyes drop, watching the way his hand wraps around himself—thick, aching, already slick at the tip. Your body clenches helplessly in response.
His eyes flick up, catching yours. “Ready?”
You lift your legs and wrap them around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him in. His breath stutters as he presses forward, the swollen tip sliding against your slick heat.
“Fuck,” he gasps, his forehead falling gently against yours.
He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the closeness—the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, fear and urgency tangling in a dizzy rush until all you can think is him—here, now, inside.
It’s familiar… but it isn’t. Everything is clear this time. Sharp. You feel every inch of him—his skin, his breath, the deliberate glide of his body against yours, like you were made to fit exactly like this.
For a moment, you just breathe. Eyes shut tight. Hands locked around his shoulders. Your body clenches around him like it’s trying to keep him there, keep him close, keep him forever. He buries his face in your neck, breathing you in, breath warm against your skin.
Then he shifts—hips pulling back—his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach tighten and sparks race up your spine. You suck in a sharp, shaking breath—
And then he snaps forward, thrusting deep.
“Fuck—” you cry out. “Scott.”
He rolls back with a slow, controlled drag, lifting his head to look at you—and the moment your eyes meet, something in your chest stutters. Your breath catches. Your eyes sting. His lips are swollen, his cheeks flushed, his pupils so blown there’s barely any blue left in his eyes.
He looks wrecked. Beautiful. Yours.
And it hits you—clean and brutal—right in the centre of your chest.
“I’m in love with you,” you blurt.
He freezes—every muscle going taut, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and your skin.
For a second, cold panic cuts through the heat. Maybe you fucked up. Maybe he didn’t mean it earlier. Maybe saying it now—while he’s literally inside you—is insane. Maybe you’ve ruined it—
But then he smiles.
Not a smirk. Not a tease. A real smile—bright, disarming—and then it tilts into something smug, something so painfully Scott it makes your heart drop to your stomach.
“I know,” he says, breathless, like staying still right now is physically hurting him. “You’re pretty much obsessed with me.”
Your eyes go wide, indignation tripping up your breath, your mouth opening—ready to tear him apart—
But you don’t get the chance.
His hips slam forward, knocking the air right out of you. And again—harder. His mouth crashes onto yours, messy and consuming, swallowing whatever insult you were about to fling at him.
The room fills with sound—skin meeting skin, breathless gasps, the deep, wrecked noises he rips from your throat with every thrust. He fucks you like the confession snapped whatever restraint he had left, like the only thing he knows how to do now is take you apart.
The friction is perfect—sharp, blinding—heat curling tight and fast in your belly. Every drive of his hips hits that spot inside you, precise and relentless, like he’s been mapping your body in his head for years. His hands roam everywhere—your ribs, your hips, your thighs—desperate, greedy, like he’s memorising you all over again.
“Scott—” you gasp, your voice breaking as your body jolts with a thrust that hits so deep your vision sparks white.
He lifts his head, sweat beading at his hairline, chest heaving.
“I want—” Your hands slide up his back, fingers threading into his damp curls. “I want you to come inside me.”
His breath catches. His rhythm falters. For a second he almost stops—hips slowing, like he’s not sure he heard you right.
Then a rough, disbelieving laugh slips out of him, low and wrecked against your throat. “You can’t say shit like that to me.”
You frown, breath ragged. “But I mean it.”
He groans—full-body, helpless—dropping his head into the crook of your neck. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“Yeah,” you breathe, giggling through the desperation, “that’s the plan.”
Before you’ve even braced for it—before he’s even lifted his head—his hips snap into you again. You cry out, nails dragging down his back. His mouth stays at your neck, hot and wet, every kiss sending heat rolling down your spine as he thrusts into you with a clarity and force you’ve never felt before.
Then he pulls back just long enough to kiss you—a messy, open-mouthed drag of lips and tongue—and sits up, still buried inside you. His next thrust hits a new angle that knocks your breath out of your lungs.
He grabs your thigh, lifts it over his shoulder, opening you wide without hesitation. And the shift drives his cock even deeper, dragging against every sensitive place inside you, your whole body writhing helplessly.
“Scott—oh my God—”
He thrusts harder now—rough, fast, relentless—finding spots you didn’t even know existed, each stroke tight and perfect and devastating. Your body clenches around him, your lungs burn, your pulse roars in your throat. You lock eyes with him—his gaze blown wide, hungry, desperate—and it hits you just how close you are.
You feel like you’re going to pass out. Or explode. Or both.
“You like that?” he pants, eyes still locked on yours. “Tell me how good it feels.”
You moan something garbled, something that barely qualifies as a word, your hands flying into your hair as your back lifts clean off the mattress. His name spills from your lips in broken syllables, again and again, like prayer.
And it only spurs him on.
You don’t even know what sound comes out of you next—some ruined, hungry thing—and your hand drifts to your chest, fingers tugging lightly at one nipple.
His rhythm falters. He groans—loud and helpless—the sight of you unravelling him completely.
“Fuck—look at you,” he gasps. “You gonna come, baby?”
He adjusts his grip and thrusts deeper, harder, one hand locked on your hip, the other pressing your leg back even farther as he drives into you like he can’t get close enough. Every thrust is devastating—deep, punishing, perfect. The wet slap of skin on skin echoes through the room, nearly drowned out by the broken, desperate sounds spilling from both of you.
“‘M gonna—” you whimper. “Scott, I—”
“I know,” he pants, voice fraying at the edges. “Let me feel you. Let me have it.”
Then his fingers find your clit—and your vision goes white. Your hips snap up to meet his, chasing every ounce of friction he gives you. His touch doesn’t waver—circling, pressing, grinding with almost cruel precision, each movement sending lightning through your spine. The knot in your belly pulls tight, unbearably tight, heat pooling between you, slick and desperate and right there.
“Come on, baby,” he rasps. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
So you do.
It hits you like a tidal wave—sharp, blinding, stealing the air from your lungs. Your cry breaks out of you, raw and helpless, your whole body trembling as your thigh slips from his shoulder. Your fingers clamp around his arms, digging in, while your cunt clenches around him in hard, rhythmic pulses that drag a wrecked sound straight out of his chest.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, still moving inside you—slower now, deeper, like he’s trying to feel every last flutter of your orgasm milking him. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
You barely have time to breathe before he’s falling apart too.
His thrusts stutter, his body tightening above you, and then he lets out a choked, desperate noise—somewhere between a gasp and a moan—as his hips snap forward one last time. He spills deep inside you with a broken, breathless, “Fuck—” his voice cracking against your skin.
And for a long moment, neither of you move.
Your breaths collide in the hot space between your mouths—rough, uneven, like you both forgot how to inhale.
Then Scott finally collapses—half onto you, half beside you—bracing a shaky arm near your head so he doesn’t crush you, forehead pressed against your cheek. He’s still inside you, still catching his breath, hovering like if he shifts even an inch, you’ll both fall apart again.
You stare up at the ceiling, chest heaving, trying to get your lungs to cooperate. “Is it—” Your voice cracks, raw from every sound he just dragged out of you. “Fuck—is it always that good?”
He lets out a stunned little laugh, breath warm against your shoulder. “I mean, yeah, it’s always good—really good.”
He lifts his head just enough for you to see him—flushed, sweaty, hair wrecked, pupils blown, still looking like he hasn’t fully returned to his body.
“But that?” He huffs out another disbelieving breath. “That was really, really good.”
You arch a brow, lips twitching. “You saying that ‘cause you’re in love with me now?”
He scoffs—immediate, defensive, painfully obvious. “No. I’m saying that because I’m pretty sure half the motel heard you screaming my name.”
You roll your eyes. “Like we haven’t had noise complaints before.”
He laughs again, softer this time, lips brushing your shoulder in a lazy kiss as he shifts—just enough to slip out of you with a quiet groan. Then he rolls onto his back beside you, his arm pressed against yours, neither of you even pretending to move away.
“I’m gonna be honest,” he says, still staring at the ceiling. “I didn’t think anything could top it before, but sober sex? My new favourite.”
You snort, turning your head to look at him. “Yeah? Not feeling nostalgic for cheap tequila?”
He smirks, the corner of his mouth curling. “Not even a little. Sober you is way stronger. I’m gonna have scratches on my back for a week.”
You roll onto your side, propping your chin on your arm. “You complaining?”
He glances over, eyes dragging down your face, slow and unmistakably fond in a way that makes your stomach flip. “Not a chance.”
Silence settles between you. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… warm. Familiar. You’ve done this before—breathless, tangled, limp-limbed on some shitty mattress—but now there’s something else beneath it. Something steadier. Something that makes you want to climb on top of him and let him hold you until the sun comes up.
Then Scott exhales, breaking the silence as he sits up in one lazy motion. He pushes off the mattress, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s stark naked—skin flushed, muscles spent, hair doing something that shouldn’t be legal. And God, all you want to do is drag him back down and ride him until you forget your own name.
“By the way,” he says, glancing at you over his shoulder as he stretches, “that girl at the bar? The blonde? She’s my cousin.”
You blink—hard. “Your… what?”
“My cousin,” he repeats, clearly amused. “She drives in from Austin whenever I’m nearby.”
“Oh my—” Your eyes go wide. “Scott, I insulted her. I full-on called her a buckle bunny. And now she’s just alone in the bar?!”
He chuckles softly. “Relax. She knows my team pretty well.” He pauses, brows furrowing just a little. “And she’ll probably go home with Mateo now that I’m not there.”
You squeeze your eyes shut with a groan. “Fantastic. Great. Just add that to the list of things I’ve ruined this week.”
He laughs again, low and far too pleased with himself. “It’s really fine.”
You crack one eye open. “You sure?”
“Oh yeah.” A smug grin curls at the corner of his mouth. “You were just jealous.”
Both eyes snap open. “I was not jealous.”
He hums, unconvinced. “Sure you weren’t.”
You grab the nearest pillow and throw it square at his head—but he catches it. One-handed. Still wearing that infuriating smirk.
“So,” he says casually, “since you’re in love with me now... wanna shower together?”
You groan again, covering your burning face with both hands. “I take it back. I regret everything. Put your clothes on and get out.”
He laughs—a real one, low and warm—then leans over and grips your thighs, just above your knees. “Too late. You said it. Can’t unsay it.”
“I’ll just kill you in your sleep,” you mumble into your palms.
“Maybe,” he says, smug as ever. “But you’ll feel really bad about it.”
You part your fingers and glare at him—but the smile tugging at your lips completely ruins the effect. And before you can decide whether to smack him or kiss him, his hands tighten on your thighs and he yanks you to the edge of the bed.
You yelp, grabbing for the sheets, but he’s already pulling you forward—until you’re half-sitting, half-sprawled, legs hanging off the mattress. Then he leans in and kisses you.
Hard.
It’s the kind of kiss that knocks breath out of lungs. That you feel in your stomach, your spine, your toes. His hand slides up your thigh, the other cupping your jaw as he devours you—slow for half a second, then hungry, then desperate, like he can’t believe he gets to kiss you like this.
Your fingers fist in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans into your mouth—low, wrecked, like the sound is torn straight from his chest.
When he finally breaks away, you’re breathless and a little dizzy.
“Shower,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. “Before I forget how to walk.”
You huff a laugh—barely—because your pulse is still trying to decide whether to slow down or explode.
“Think you’ll make it there?” you tease, voice shaky.
He grins—wide, wicked—and hooks his arms under your thighs.
“Oh, I’m making it,” he says, lifting you off the bed like you weigh nothing at all. “Question is… are you gonna survive round two?”
You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he carries you toward the bathroom, your laugh breaking into a breathless exhale when his mouth finds yours again.
“Try me,” you whisper against his lips.
And he does.
Again and again.
All night, all weekend.
And long after storm season’s over.
Until neither of you can pretend it was ever just sex.
summary: it’s been this way since college—you drink, get drunk, you fight, and then you fuck. and now you’re chasing storms in rival crews, slipping in and out of motel rooms between tornado sirens, swearing every morning after that this time was the last time. but denial gets heavier, tyler gets suspicious, and jealousy hits harder than any storm. and suddenly you’re realising… maybe it was never just sex. (based on this song)
notes: this took so long and it turned into a character study, but oh my goodness, i love it so much. i honestly love this man, this character, with all my heart and writing this was so much fun. you have no idea! i'm sorry it's so long but please give it a chance, it's probably my favourite thing i've written??? and as always, please let me know what you think! (i also made a whole playlist)
warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, italics, mentions of drunk sex, lots of tension and banter, lots of denial, jealousy, a little angst, some likely incorrect storm science (and a lot of lines stolen directly from both twister movies), lots of arguing, it gets a lil dramatic (but in a good way), and SMUT (making out, dirty-ish talk, unprotected p in v, and kind of rough? also don't come for me if some parts get repetitive, smut is hard) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!
word count: 16668 (28087)
‧₊˚✧ PART TWO ‧₊˚✧
You’ve seen this before.
Your black dress lying on the floor. A few feet away, a white shirt. Pants. Boxers. Definitely not yours.
Your lashes flutter, eyes slowly adjusting to the stream of sunlight spilling through the crack in the curtains, painting the room in warm golden hues of morning—
Shit.
You roll over—and of course, he’s there. Arm slung across your waist, legs tangled with yours, his body taking up more of the bed than you’d normally ever allow a sleeping partner to occupy. His lashes rest dark against his cheeks, a smattering of freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose, full lips parted just slightly as he breathes steady and slow. He’s so pretty—almost unfairly so—but that doesn’t make you want to kick him out any less.
“Scott,” you hiss, tapping his cheek. “Wake the fuck up and get the fuck out.”
He stirs, brow furrowing as he mumbles something low and incoherent.
“Scott, I am so serious right now, it’s like—” You reach for your phone on the nightstand, tapping the screen to light it up. The time flashes back at you, and your stomach drops. You bolt upright. “It’s seven o’clock! You need to get the fuck out of here before my crew start waking up.”
He groans and rolls onto his back, lashes fluttering as his eyes blink against the morning light. “Yeah, ‘m awake.”
The gravel in his voice first thing in the morning always makes your heart stutter. It's ridiculous—really—that a man so irritating, so endlessly infuriating, can be this sexy without even trying. Which is exactly why you don’t blame yourself for giving in. To him. His stupidly sharp wit. His stupid blue eyes. That stupidly talented tongue that never fails to—
“Thinking about round two?” he asks, lips curved into a sleepy smirk.
You roll your eyes and turn away, planting your feet firmly on the grey motel carpet. “Pretty sure we’re well past round two after last night—but for the record? No. I’m actually thinking about the exact opposite.”
The mattress dips as he sits up. “Yeah? And what’s the exact opposite of another round of back-breaking sex?”
“The fact that it’s never going to happen again,” you say, standing and turning to face him. “Ever.”
His brows lift, lips still curled into that smirk. “Ever?”
Your eyes narrow. “Never.”
“Heard that before,” he chuckles, swinging his legs off the bed and stretching his arms out wide.
“Yeah, well—” you pick up his shirt and toss it at him, “—this time I mean it.”
“Said you meant it last time too.” He glances over his shoulder, eyes sparkling—and God, you can’t decide if you want to punch him or kiss him.
“Just get dressed and get out,” you mutter, bending down to scoop up his boxers.
It isn’t long before he’s fully dressed, StormPAR printed across the left side of his chest and a smudge of your mascara staining the collar. He slips his shoes on—doesn’t bother lacing them—sets his cap on his head, and heads for the door, where you’re waiting with your arms crossed.
“Tomorrow night, then?” he asks, hand on the doorknob, lips twitching.
You give him a flat look. “Funny.”
“Oh, I’m not being funny.”
Before you can fire back, he steps in close, fingers catching on the hem of your shirt. He tugs—just enough to pull you off balance—and then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. The kind of kiss that makes your knees threaten to buckle. The kind of kiss that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
When he finally pulls back, he chuckles—soft and low and infuriating. Then he’s gone, leaving you alone in the old motel room that smells like sex and mothballs, pulse racing, glaring at the door like it’s the problem.
But it’s not. And neither are you. It’s him—always him. Every time. He’s impossible. Insufferable. With that flat scowl that seems permanently carved into his face, those ridiculously broad shoulders that never seem to relax, and the way his eyes can pin you across any bar, any tavern, any crowded room like you’re the only thing worth looking at.
It’s like déjà vu.
The same damn pattern on repeat.
You drink, you get drunk, you fight—and then you fuck.
Every. Single. Time.
It started back in college. You first spotted him across the lecture hall—head and shoulders above the rest, dark hair catching the sunlight streaming in through the tall windows, blue eyes sharp as they scanned the room. He looked like he was on his way to audition for Superman, not sit through a lecture about the physics of oceanic and atmospheric circulation. There was something about him, something impossible to ignore—something that made your pulse skip and your stomach flip.
Needless to say, you thought he was gorgeous. You fell for it. Obviously. Who wouldn’t?
But that was before he opened his mouth.
He kept to himself mostly, always quiet and serious, never wasting words unless the professor called on him. But with you? It was different. From the moment you first spoke, he was on the attack—nitpicking your storm-tracking analysis, insisting your projections were sloppy. And when you snapped back, he gave you this smirk—small, sharp, knowing. Like he knew exactly how to get under your skin. And maybe he did. Because Scott wasn’t like that with anyone else. To the rest of the world, he was just grumpy, closed-off Scott. With you, though, he was cocky, quick, infuriatingly sure of himself. Like he saw something in you that no one else did, and enjoyed poking at it just to watch you light up.
Maybe that’s why you fell into the rhythm so easily. It had nothing to do with you, not really—it was him, always him, pushing, prodding, picking fights just so he could be the one to watch you burn. That’s why every party turned into another argument, another kiss, another night. Why every time a drop of liquor touched your tongue, you ended up flat on your back with Scott on top of you. Because he always managed to draw that side of you out—the one that wanted to prove him wrong, even when it meant proving him right in all the worst ways.
After college, you thought you’d broken the curse—that you’d finally escaped whatever time loop kept you falling into bed with him. But then StormPAR showed up one tornado season, and just like that, you were right back where you started. Under him. On top of him. In the shower, on the couch, the kitchen counter, sometimes even in the bar bathroom. All his fault. Obviously. But now you have to be careful, discreet, because the last thing you need is your team finding out that you’re sleeping with the enemy.
Not that it’s happening again. Ever. Last night was the last time—you're sure of that. You mean it this time. You have to. You’re not going to let him get to you ever again. You can’t.
“Don’t you look chipper this morning,” Tyler says, grinning like hangovers are a myth he’s never believed in.
You shoot him a look. “How are you not hungover?”
He shrugs. “Years of practice. Healthy liver. Oh—and I wasn’t the one chasing tequila with… more tequila.”
You roll your eyes, even though it makes your skull throb, and turn toward the self-serve coffee machine. The rest of the group are crowded around a table in the middle of the dining hall—all except Boone, who is busy loading his plate with everything the continental breakfast has to offer. He always gets excited when you stay at a motel with complimentary breakfast.
“I’m surprised you were up so early,” Tyler says, leaning a hip against the counter.
You frown. “Early? It’s almost ten.”
He shakes his head. “No—earlier. I heard you moving around at, like, seven.”
Your stomach drops, but you keep your eyes fixed on the coffee machine. Usually you’re more careful than that—if your motel room is too close to someone else’s, you’ll go back to wherever Scott is staying. Or find somewhere in between. But you’d completely forgotten Tyler’s room was directly below yours—which means he probably heard a whole lot more than just footsteps at seven o’clock this morning.
“Oh, yeah,” you mutter. “I—uh, I ran out of toilet paper and had to go down to the front desk.”
He nods, slow and sceptical. “Right. Toilet paper.”
You bounce your heel impatiently while you wait for the coffee to fill your mug. Tyler doesn’t say anything else. He just stands there, waiting, sipping his own coffee like he’s got nothing better to do than silently interrogate you.
When your mug finally fills, you scoop it up and turn toward the table where the others are—desperate for a conversation that doesn’t make you want to throw up... more than you already do.
“Hey.” You drop into the empty seat between Lily and Javi. “How are you guys this morning?”
Kate, Dani, and Dexter are already deep in conversation about today’s chase, but it’s still way too early for you to start thinking about wind shear and hodographs.
“I’m great,” Lily says, smiling. “How are you?”
You exhale slowly and lean back in your chair. “I’ve been better.”
Javi chuckles. “Not gonna lie, I’m impressed you’re even out of bed.”
“Me too,” you mutter into your mug, sipping carefully so you don’t upset your stomach.
There’s a pause—a brief lull where Kate’s voice suddenly carries louder than it should, chatting excitedly about a monster cell forming over the plains.
Then Javi turns to you, amusement still bright on his face. “You and Scott were really going at it last night, huh?”
You choke. On nothing. Not coffee or spit or air. You just choke—breath catching, chest seizing, throat tight.
“Woah.” Lily lays a hand on your shoulder. “Are you okay?”
You cough into your hand, haphazardly setting your mug on the table as you try to breathe. “‘m good,” you manage, waving a hand dismissively. “I—I’m okay. Just—wrong pipe.”
You swallow hard and clear your throat—even though there’s nothing to clear—before turning to Javi, brows drawn tight. “Uh, what do you mean, Scott and—and me?”
He tilts his head. “Last night, at the bar. I mean, I’ve seen you two fight before, but that was—wow.”
You exhale softly, shoulders sagging as relief washes over you. “Right. At the bar. Yeah, it was... intense.”
He’s not wrong. Last night’s argument was pretty bad—but last night’s sex? That was something else entirely. You wouldn’t be surprised if the whole motel had heard you come that third time.
“Why are Scott and his crew even back this season?” Kate pipes up from across the table. “I thought they’d be hiding with their tails between their legs after what happened last year.”
“They're not working with Riggs anymore,” you say, picking up your mug and taking a short sip. “They've got new investors, new funding streams. They're refocusing their whole mission—like, actually doing legit work now. Scott’s got them running tighter sorties, logging wind shear and convective parameters with insane precision. Most of them are still MIT-level assholes, yeah. But they’ve got the equipment, the drones, the timing… they’re terrifyingly efficient. And somehow Scott’s still running interference like it’s a game.”
Silence. The whole team exchanges curious glances.
Javi leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “And exactly how do you know all that?”
You hesitate, holding your mug to your lips for a beat too long before swallowing slow. “I—uh, I spoke to one of them the other night. Don’t remember his name, but he was telling me... stuff.”
Kate frowns. “Stuff?”
Dani leans in. “You had a conversation with someone from StormPAR without yelling, shouting, or throwing drinks?”
You roll your eyes. “Come on, I’m not that bad.”
She winces. “You kind of are, though.”
Your eyes widen. “Well, I’m not violent, at least.”
Javi chuckles. “Pretty sure I heard you tell Scott he wouldn’t be able to walk straight once you were done with him.”
Heat floods your cheeks, and you have to hide behind a generous sip of coffee.
“Not violent, my ass,” Boone says, grinning over his three full plates of food. “I bet you’d throw hands with that StormPAR poser if he wasn’t two feet taller than the average person.”
You don’t know what to say to that, so you just laugh—short, clipped, awkward—and keep your mug at your chin.
Thankfully, the conversation moves on quickly. Kate starts wondering aloud whether StormPAR will be after the same cell as your team today, and soon everyone is talking about the weekend chase. It’s supposed to be a strong couple of days, which is good. You could use the distraction—and so could Tyler. Because right now he’s looking at you across the table with narrowed eyes and a small frown that makes you think he knows more than you’d like him to.
After breakfast, everyone gathers their things and piles into the two vehicles. Dani, Dexter, Lily, and Javi take the RV—Lily and Javi settling in the back with their laptops to monitor live data. Which means you’re in Tyler's truck with Kate and Boone in the back. You don’t always ride up front, but today, Tyler insisted.
It isn’t long before rain starts hitting the windscreen in rolling sheets. The whistle of the wind grows louder outside, and you can see Tyler’s knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. This is when the adrenaline starts to kick in—when the clouds drop low and the sky turns a bruise-dark shade of purple and grey.
Kate snatches up the radio, holding it to her chin. “Talk to me, Javi. Where are we headed?”
The radio crackles before Javi’s voice cuts in. “East-northeast. Storm’s picking up rotation—you’ve got maybe ten minutes before it tightens. Stay on thirty-six, then cut north at the county road.”
“Copy that,” Kate says.
“Hold on,” Tyler barks suddenly.
The truck jolts through a flooded dip in the road, and you quickly brace yourself against the dash.
“Shit.” You squint through the rain-streaked glass. “Is that StormPAR?”
Tyler leans forward, eyes narrowed. “Looks like it. How the hell did they get ahead of us?”
“No idea.”
In the back seat, Boone whoops at a streak of lightning splitting the horizon, while Kate’s got her nose buried in the laptop balanced on her knees. “Shear’s climbing. We’re threading a needle here,” she warns, eyes flicking between graphs and radar.
Tyler grins, wide and wild. “Hell of a morning commute.”
Another burst of static crackles through the radio, voices bleeding over one another as the RV crew calls updates and warnings. When you finally hit the country road, Tyler yanks the truck northward, cutting through a field of tall grass toward the building storm.
You glance over your shoulder at Kate. “How big is it supposed to get?”
“Initially I had it pegged at an EF-1,” she says. “But the velocity’s climbing—it could be an EF-2 if we’re lucky.”
You turn back to face the front, hand flying up to grip the ‘oh shit’ handle above the door. “Looks like an EF-2 to me. Let’s get in there before StormPAR.”
“Atta girl!” Tyler exclaims, slamming his foot down on the gas.
The truck lurches, Boone cheers, and Kate grumbles something about how Tyler better not kill you all before you even make it to the tornado. You glance in the side-view mirror and spot the white StormPAR truck just a few yards behind now, their LEDs flaring so bright they nearly blind you in the reflection.
“Wait,” Kate says, eyes wide as she snatches up the radio again. “Javi, are you seeing this?”
“Yeah,” he comes back quickly. “It’s shifting direction—but I can’t pin the path yet.”
“Stop the truck,” Kate orders. “We need to wait and see where it’s headed.”
Tyler nods once. “Copy. Stopping now.”
He slams on the brake, and the truck shudders to a violent halt. Everyone lurches forward—Boone gasps, Kate yelps, and you throw your hands against the dash to stop the seatbelt from strangling you.
“Jesus Christ, Tyler,” you mutter. “She didn’t mean stop right—”
“What the hell do they want?” he cuts in, scowling past you out the window.
You whip around to see the StormPAR truck pulled up right beside yours—barely two feet of space between your door and their driver’s side. The tinted window rolls down slowly, and your heart stutters. Traitor.
Scott gestures for you to lower your window, and you roll your eyes before cranking it down.
“What?” you shout over the roar of wind and rain.
The corner of his mouth lifts, just a little. “You better turn back—this one’s out of your league.”
You frown, shifting in your seat to lean out the window. “Yeah? I didn’t realise you were moonlighting as a weatherman and my babysitter!” you exclaim, your voice pitching up on the last word, jagged with frustration.
His mouth curves higher—a little closer to that smirk you know too well—and his eyes gleam even under the bleak grey sky. “Somebody’s gotta keep you alive,” he calls back.
And then he's gone.
You barely even have time to blink before the StormPAR truck is disappearing into the distance ahead. You drop back into your seat, wind the window up as fast as you can, then let your—now wet—head fall back against the headrest and let out a long, strained groan.
You roll your eyes. “It wasn’t loaded—he’s just a prick. Now let’s fucking go before we miss this thing!”
Luckily for you, Tyler doesn’t have time to argue—because you’re right. If you don’t keep moving, you’re going to miss the storm. He hits the gas and you’re all pressed back in your seats as the truck starts cutting through the field again. Javi radios in with new instructions, and Tyler follows. Kate leans forward with her laptop, flashing you the screen and asking for your opinion on the rotational velocity she’s reading.
It’s like clockwork—everyone falling into their roles, the chase running through you like instinct. But today it doesn’t matter how well you all work together. It doesn’t matter how sharp Javi’s calls are, how fast Tyler drives, how excited Boone is—it's all useless.
By the time you hit the spot the radar promised, you see it—a thin funnel dangling from the clouds, twisting like it can't quite make up its mind. For one sharp second, your pulse spikes. But then the clouds pull back, and the funnel collapses in on itself, gone before you can even blink. Too high, too short, too weak to count.
Boone groans. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Kate snaps her laptop shut with a sigh. “All that for a glorified dust devil.”
Tyler thumps the steering wheel once, muttering under his breath, and you sink back against your seat, jaw tight. Across the field, just over the crest of the hill, you catch sight of the StormPAR truck, barely visible through the thinning weather. You tell yourself it’s just coincidence that your eyes find it so quickly—but deep down, you know better. It’s like you’ve got a sixth sense for Scott, like your body knows when he’s near even if you wish it didn’t.
The drive back to the motel is quiet, heavy with the disappointment of unpredictable weather—because no matter how much you think you know from hook echoes and velocity scans, the storm always has the final say. It’s that mysterious moment before the funnel drops that one no one can forecast except Mother Nature herself.
Once Tyler parks the truck, you all climb out. Kate’s already talking about tomorrow’s predictions when the others meet you in the parking lot, all grumbling about today’s lack of success—until Javi points out the CAPE numbers spiking and dewpoints climbing into the upper sixties. Then the mood shifts, just a little, because tomorrow could be the real thing.
The rest of the afternoon is filled with talk of tomorrow’s potential and an early dinner at the diner around the corner, then you all head back to the motel. Javi and Lily start tinkering with their latest drone modifications while Tyler, Dani, Dexter, and Boone all settle into their lawn chairs with a beer—but you and Kate both decide to call it a night.
You take a long shower, letting the water run over you until your skin turns red—but it still doesn’t wash him away. The image of him, the memories of last night. They loop endlessly in your head. Even when you try to watch a movie on the tiny TV in the corner of the room, you end up staring through it more than you actually watch.
Eventually, you flick off the lights, sink into bed, and try to sleep. Try. But it doesn’t come easy. You toss and turn, restless, your mind circling back again and again no matter how hard you try to shove it away. Every time you shut your eyes, last night flickers behind your eyelids—the heat of it, the sharp edges, the way he looked at you. And worse? The smell of him is still here, stubbornly clinging to your sheets like he’s burned into the fabric, into you. You hate it. You hate that it makes your chest tight, that it makes you want more instead of less.
And when you finally do fall asleep, your dreams betray you. Because he’s there—always there. His mouth at your throat, breath hot against your skin, his hands holding you in place like he can’t stand the thought of letting you go. The way he touches you—confident, hungry, reverent—burns into you, every brush of his skin making your breath stutter. He groans when you arch against him, a sound that drags heat straight to your core, and it’s unfair, so unfair—how good it feels to have him pressed against you, filling you, claiming you like you belong to him.
You wake in a sweat at three a.m., pulse racing, skin still buzzing. And you’re furious. Furious that he’s invaded your head, your subconscious, the one place he has no right to be. Furious that your body is betraying you, aching for him even now, when you swore last night was the last time. Because you don’t want him. You can’t want him. And that is exactly why it has to stop—why you can’t keep letting him crawl under your skin, into your bed, into your goddamn dreams.
Sleep mostly evades you after that. You drift in and out, caught between restless half-dreams and the stubborn ache of wakefulness, until finally—eventually—you manage to fall under again. But then your phone’s alarm starts blaring and your eyes snap open after what feels like only twenty minutes of actual sleep.
You let out a sigh, rub your eyes, and throw the covers back, dragging yourself into the shower. After a quick rinse and brushing your teeth, you pull on a pair of shorts and an oversized MIT shirt, then head out the door. The moment you step outside, the air hits you—thick and heavy, humidity clinging to your skin—and a spark of excitement flickers in your chest. Because warm, moist air means one thing: today, you're going to chase a real storm.
“Are you feelin’ this?” Boone calls from below, standing beside Tyler and the truck.
You grin. “Oh, yeah, baby! It’s tornado weather.”
You hurry along the balcony and down the stairs, skipping the last few steps with a jump. Tyler is already packing gear into the truck, and Boone is beaming as he slides new rockets into the chutes at the rear of the cab. Javi, Lily, and Kate are crowded around a laptop, murmuring excitedly and pointing at something on the screen, while Dexter quietly finishes his cup of coffee, eyes fixed on the sky.
“We’re gonna get a good one today, I can feel it,” Tyler says as you approach, tightening a bolt on the truck’s cage. “Then I thought we’d head down to Texas tomorrow. Amarillo’s looking promising for the next week.”
You nod slowly, watching the wrench instead of his face. “Sounds good. Is that where everyone else is headed?”
His hand stills, head tilting, brow furrowing. “Since when are you worried about where other chasers are going?”
You shrug, ignoring the heat in your cheeks. “Just asking.”
His eyes narrow and he straightens slowly, mouth opening to press further—but before he can, Boone pops up, saving you from the interrogation.
“So,” he says, eyes bright as they bounce between you and Tyler, “who’s riding in the truck today?”
“Me, obviously,” you reply quickly, eager to change the subject. “And I call shotgun.”
Boone frowns. “But you had shotgun yesterday.”
You lift a shoulder. “Yesterday was a bust. I’m owed a decent storm.”
He turns to Tyler with a pout. “T, tell her she’s being unfair.”
Tyler chuckles. “She called shotgun, Boone. Not much I can do about that.”
Boone huffs but doesn’t argue—he just turns away, sulking as he walks over to the others.
“We should get going,” Tyler says, dropping the wrench back into his poor excuse for a toolbox. “I need to get gas before we head out, and I know Boone’s hungry.”
“There’s a little diner-slash-truck stop about five minutes up the road,” you offer. “Pretty sure I saw a sign that said they serve breakfast burritos.”
Tyler slides his aviators up his nose and grins. “Breakfast burritos it is. Let’s wrangle the wranglers.”
You roll your eyes, biting back a smile as you turn away from him. You can’t give him the satisfaction of laughing at something so dumb—Tyler Owens’ ego is already big enough.
It isn’t long before everyone’s piling out of the vehicles at the diner. Boone and Dani head straight for the door, arguing about hot sauce on breakfast burritos, while Kate and Lily trail just a few steps behind. Tyler parks his truck at one of the gas pumps, and Dexter helps Javi manoeuvre the RV beside another.
“Hey, Ty,” you say as you slip out of the passenger’s side. “Have you seen my sunglasses?”
He shrugs, eyes fixed on the pump. “They’re not in the centre console?”
“No,” you sigh. “I’ve looked all through the truck.”
“Didn’t Lily borrow them the other day?”
“Oh.” You turn toward the RV. “Yeah, she did. Thanks.”
He mumbles something you don’t quite catch as you start toward the RV. Dexter is standing near the rear of the vehicle, holding the pump while Javi rambles about lifted index and dewpoints. You flash them both a quick smile before yanking the door open and climbing up the few steps into the RV that looks more like a meteorologist’s lab than a home on wheels.
It takes all of ten seconds to spot your sunglasses sitting on the dash. You grab them and push them on top of your head, checking your reflection quickly in the rear-view mirror before turning back toward the door.
But then you hear Javi’s voice—and freeze.
“Hey, man, how are you?” he says, too brightly for it to be directed at one of your crew.
“I’m good, how are you?”
You know that voice—almost too well—and you’re not in the mood to get caught in a conversation with the person it belongs to.
“Yeah, I’m good,” Javi replies. “Did you catch that bust yesterday?”
You creep toward the door—ignoring the mix of dread and nausea curling in your gut—and lean closer, peering through a tear in the faded curtain covering the little window.
“Yeah, we caught that,” Scott says. “Watched it collapse.”
Javi sighs. “Yeah, total letdown. But hey—looks like redemption weather today.”
Scott chuckles—softly, but you can still hear it. Hell, you can practically see it. You know exactly what he looks like when he does that little half laugh—the way his mouth quirks, the way his eyes drop like he’s trying not to let it show, but the small shake in his shoulders always gives him away. You’ve seen it too many times, memorised it without meaning to.
“How is it, anyway?” he asks. “Chasing with Owens.”
You lean a little closer to the door.
“Honestly?” Javi says. “It’s great. They’re a great crew. Everyone’s sharp, they’ve got their own things, and we all work so well together. I mean, even the tech—it’s dated, sure, but it works. It’s like a well-oiled machine, man. You should see these guys out on the field.”
Through the tear in the curtain, you can just make out the movement of Javi’s hand clapping Dexter’s shoulder.
“Wow,” Scott says. “Sounds great.”
To anyone else, his tone might sound sarcastic—but you know better. You know what Scott sounds like when he’s really being derisive, and so does Javi—he worked with him long enough—but this isn’t that. Scott’s genuinely happy for his former business partner.
“But what about you, man?” Javi says, voice bright. “I’ve been hearing all kinds of things about StormPAR. You dropped Riggs, right? And now you’re running interference like it’s a damn sport? Sounds like you’ve got that place dialled in.”
Your eyes go wide and your pulse spikes, panic rushing through your veins.
“I—uh, yeah,” Scott says, and you can almost see the confused frown on his face. “We dropped Riggs. Thought we should try doing things the right way. But—um... who—who told you all that?”
Your stomach drops when you hear Javi say your name—and before you can stop yourself, you shove the door open and stumble out of the RV. You almost lose your footing on the last step, but manage to catch yourself on the door handle.
“Speak of the devil,” Dexter chuckles, hooking the pump back into place on the side of the bowser.
You straighten, looking anywhere but at Scott as you slowly shut the RV door.
“There’s my girl,” Javi grins. “I was just telling Scott about what you were saying at breakfast yesterday. How impressed you are with—”
“I never said I was impressed,” you cut in, stepping toward them both.
Javi chuckles, slinging an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side—and you can almost swear you catch the flicker of something sharp in Scott’s eyes. But he masks it quickly, hiding it behind that infuriatingly familiar smirk.
“So,” he says, folding his arms, “how d’you know so much about StormPAR?”
You narrow your eyes. “I had a brief conversation with one of your teammates the other night.”
His brows lift. “Yeah? Who was it?”
“Didn’t catch his name.”
“Describe him,” he presses. “I’m sure I’ll know who you’re talking about.”
Frustration coils hot in your chest, lighting your skin on fire from the inside out.
You fold your arms to match him. “He was tall and obnoxious and completely full of himself.”
He smirks, voice dropping low. “Pretty sure you were full of him too.”
Your pulse jumps, heat flooding your cheeks as your eyes dart to Javi, who—thank God—is too distracted by an alert on his phone to catch what Scott said. When you look back, Scott’s head is bowed, his shoulders shaking just slightly as he tries to hide his amusement behind the brim of his stupid StormPAR hat.
“You’re impossible,” you hiss.
He glances up, blue eyes shining, and opens his mouth to retort—but Javi cuts in.
“Damn, have you seen this?” he says, holding up his phone. “CAPE numbers are climbing fast. Looks like we’re getting a storm earlier than we thought.”
You drag your eyes away from Scott to survey Javi’s phone screen—and he’s right. CAPE values are rising, and the radar’s showing stronger rotation. With conditions like this, you’ll see a cell before midday.
“Should we tell the others to hurry up?”
Javi shrugs. “Wouldn’t hurt to hit the road sooner.”
You nod. “I’ll go round them up.”
You shoot Scott a scathing look before marching right past him toward the diner. You’re so frustrated—and, okay, a little flustered—that you don’t even notice you’re being followed until a hand beats yours to the door handle.
Scott pulls the door open before you can protest, gesturing with his other hand for you to go first. You know it’d be stupid to refuse, especially with how many chasers are milling about—people you know—so you settle for another scowl as you step inside the diner.
It isn’t big or fancy, but it’s clean—and it smells like coffee and maple syrup. There are only four booths in the dining space and a few stools at the counter, which has left most of the clientele on their feet. But your crew, of course, managed to secure one of the booths in the far corner.
“Nice shirt, by the way,” Scott says, voice low but still loud enough to cut through the chatter.
You glance over your shoulder. “Thanks. Are you so self-involved that you forgot I went to MIT too?”
He hums, almost a laugh. “No, I remember.” His eyes flick down, then back up—steady, deliberate. “I remember very clearly.”
You turn to face him, folding your arms as your pulse picks up. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know what.”
He tilts his head, feigning innocence. “I’m not looking at you like anything. Just noticed that shirt looks a little big.”
You glance down—and your stomach drops. It’s his.
You school your expression quickly. “Yeah? Well... I bought it oversized.”
“Mm.” His mouth curves. “Sure you did.”
You roll your eyes, opening your mouth to fire back—but he beats you to it.
“It’s just that—” he steps closer, voice dropping lower “—I had a shirt just like that, but it went missing a couple weeks ago.”
Your pulse spikes. A couple of weeks ago, in Dodge City, you’d been stuck in a motel room right next to Tyler’s—so you’d gone to Scott’s instead. The next morning, you hadn’t felt like putting your own clothes back on, so you’d left wearing a pair of his boxers and... an old MIT shirt.
“Look,” you mutter, lifting a hand to press to his chest before quickly remembering where you are and letting it fall. “It’s my shirt now. Because that—” your eyes search his, and you hate the way your heart thuds harder, “—is never happening again. Ever.”
His mouth twitches like he’s about to say something clever, but then his eyes flick over your shoulder—and the playfulness fades. His expression shutters back into that blank, guarded calm he always hides behind.
“What’s never happening again?” Tyler asks, startling you.
You whip around, face burning. “Nothing—I mean, well—yeah, nothing. Because it’s never happening again.” You turn back to Scott, eyes wide. “Right?”
His brow creases just slightly. “Right,” he mutters. “I’ll never ask you for a wind reading ever again.”
You stare at him for a beat, eyes wide, lips parted like you’re about to say something—but all that comes out is a quiet scoff as you shake your head.
“Wind reading?” Tyler echoes.
“Yep!” you reply, too fast and too bright. “Never giving StormPAR any of our data ever again. Now let’s get the others—Javi said conditions are picking up and we don’t want to miss it.”
Tyler frowns. “But—”
“No buts,” you cut in quickly. “Come on, let’s wrangle the wranglers!”
He doesn’t have time to protest again before you grab his arm and steer him through the diner toward the rest of the crew. You quickly fill them in on the changing weather conditions, and you don’t even need to ask before everyone’s scrambling to leave.
You keep your eyes fixed on the clip in the back of Kate’s hair as you make your way out, determined not to look back. You don’t need to know if he’s watching or following. You don’t even care if he is. Because today isn’t about Scott—it’s about the supercell forming east over the plains.
In fact, nothing is about Scott. Not today, not yesterday, and especially not you.
You’re about storms, and chasing, and your crew—not drunk motel sex that you have to keep a secret. No matter how good it is. Because it’s just sex. Great sex, sure, but replaceable. You can find great sex somewhere else. You just need to stop falling for his stupid little traps—like that cocky smirk he saves just for you, or the spark in his eyes when he baits you and you rise to it every damn time. Or the way those same eyes darken when his mouth is on you, when he looks up through his lashes with that lazy sort of focus, his lips slick with—
“Hello?” Tyler waves his hand in front of your face. “Are you even listening?”
The truck jolts and you quickly grab the door to steady yourself. “Yeah,” you lie. “I’m just—just trying to watch for wind direction... and stuff.”
Tyler shakes his head, eyes fixed on the rain-splattered windscreen. “That was a bad lie and you know it. What’s with you today?”
“Nothing,” you mutter. “I’m fine.”
He shoots you a sidelong look. “You’ve been weird since yesterday.”
“No I haven’t,” you lie—again—keeping your gaze focused on the dark grey sky ahead.
“Yes, you have,” he starts, “you’ve been—”
“Speaking of yesterday,” Boone cuts in, leaning forward over the centre console, “I forgot to mention it because I was so bummed about the storm, but I went into the front office when we got back and the receptionist said we had a noise complaint.”
Your pulse stutters.
Tyler tilts his head to look at Boone in the rear-view mirror. “Noise complaint?”
“Yeah,” Boone says. “From room 2C.”
Tyler glances at you. “You’re in 2B, aren’t you?”
Your cheeks flush, your mouth opens—but nothing comes out. Shit.
“Did they say what kind of noise?” Tyler asks.
“Banging, moaning, groaning,” Boone says, brow furrowing. “Apparently they thought the place was haunted until the noises stopped in the early morning.”
“That’s so weird,” you say, a little too fast. “I didn’t hear anything.”
Tyler’s brows lift, his eyes still on the road. “So, it wasn’t you?”
You scoff, but it’s so forced you might as well be holding up a flashing neon sign that says guilty. “No, it wasn’t me. Why—why would it be me? How would I even make all those noises?”
Boone snorts. “Unless you were watching p—”
The truck hits a ditch in the dirt road, and all of you lurch forward.
“Shit,” Tyler hisses, gripping the steering wheel tight with both hands.
The rain outside is brutal now, rolling in sheets against the windscreen and making it almost impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.
“We’ve got hail,” Javi’s voice crackles through the radio, bright with excitement. “Make the next left and hit the gas—the cap’s about to break!”
Tyler presses his foot down, urging the truck faster and squeezing the wheel until his knuckles turn white. Adrenaline and relief flood through you, a thin sweat breaking over the back of your neck. You know you’re not out of the woods yet—Tyler won't let this go that easily—but at least you’ve bought yourself some time to come up with a defence.
By the time the storm breaks, it’s everything the radar promised—a clean cap, perfect rotation, a funnel that almost kisses the ground before pulling back into the clouds. Tyler’s whooping, Boone’s halfway out the window trying to film it, everyone’s cheering over the radio, and for a while, it’s easy to forget everything else. For a while it’s just you, your crew, the chase, and that rush in your veins that feels like purpose.
Hours blur into one another—dark clouds chasing light, wind roaring so loud it drowns out thought. By the time you roll back into the motel parking lot, you’re soaked through and buzzing, boots squelching with every step. The sky’s gone that bruised purple-grey, lightning still flickering at the edges, and the air hums with the heavy, metallic scent of rain and dust. It’s been a good day—a great one, even. Almost enough to make you forget about the twisted feeling in your gut you still don’t have a name for.
“Hey,” Kate calls, jogging across the parking lot to catch you. “You coming out tonight?”
You turn to face her, brows drawing tight. “What’s tonight?”
“A bunch of chasers are going to one of the bars in town,” she says, “to celebrate today’s storm.”
Your pulse quickens. “Oh—uh, yeah, sure.”
She beams. “Great.”
You give her a tight smile and turn back the way you were going, hoping she doesn’t notice the colour rising in your cheeks. “Just let me shower and I’ll meet you back down here at—”
“Six,” she calls after you. “Everyone will be ready at six.”
You glance over your shoulder. “Right. Six.”
The grin on her face is a little too wide to be casual, and there’s a spark in her eyes that makes you think she’s up to something more than just wrangling the team for a night out. Kate doesn’t usually come out when you all go drinking—she’s a special occasions kind of girl—which, you suppose, is something you could label tonight as. It is technically a celebration.
But there’s something more. Something else hiding behind her smile. Something you’ll worry about after you get out of these wet clothes and soggy boots.
You take an extra-long, extra-hot shower, letting the water soak your skin until it’s pink and pruned. Then you step out, dry off, get dressed, and decide to take a little longer than usual getting ready. You do your hair, fix your clothes in the mirror, and carefully apply a red lipstick that matches your top.
You don’t usually put much effort into drinks with the crew—but tonight’s effort has nothing to do with your crew and everything to do with which other crews might be at the bar. Even though you know you’re not going home with anyone other than your friends. Especially not anyone from StormPAR.
“No Scott,” you tell your reflection sternly. “Not too many drinks, no absinthe, and no sex.” You pause, staring yourself down like that’s somehow going to give drunk you some self-control. “No Scott. Got it?”
You nod once, firm, then turn around, grab your purse, and head out the door. Everyone else is already waiting in the parking lot, gathered and chatting excitedly beside Tyler’s truck, the energy still buzzing from the day’s successful chase.
“Finally!” Boone calls. “I’m dying of thirst out here.”
You roll your eyes as you start down the stairs, listening to the rest of them argue about who’s going in which vehicle. When you reach the truck, Kate ushers you into the front seat before she climbs into the back between Lily and Boone—and while you know there’s some ulterior motive, you’re not about to argue.
“So,” Tyler says, turning the ignition, “where’s this bar, Kate?”
“East side of town, just past the strip malls,” she says. “You can’t miss it—it’s got the most insane amount of fairy lights all over the front terrace.”
Tyler snorts. “Sounds classy.”
“Oh, it is.” Kate leans forward over the centre console. “It’s technically a cantina.”
“A cantina in the middle of Norman, Oklahoma?” Boone pipes up.
You glance at Kate. “Is it offensive?”
She tilts her head. “If you’re asking whether they wear sombreros and fake moustaches? No. It’s mostly just Mexican cuisine and some inspired decor. The original owners actually were Hispanic, but they sold it and retired.”
“And how do you know so much about this place?” Tyler asks.
Kate shrugs. “I went a few times with my friends, years ago. Jeb loved it—he said we had to go back any time we were chasing near Norman.”
You don’t often hear about Kate’s late friends—especially not Jeb—but lately, she’s been better. She’s been opening up more, telling stories, less afraid of her past. It’s partly thanks to Javi, because being close again means they’ve been able to work through some shared trauma, but you also know Tyler has a little something to do with it. You’re not exactly sure what’s going on between them, but you know it’s definitely something.
“Anyway,” Kate says, shaking her head quickly before turning to you. “I want to talk to you about something.”
Oh, God.
You lift your brows. “Here?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, here. It’s not a secret, it’s just...” She trails off, pursing her lips as she tries to think of a way to lessen the blow of whatever she’s about to say. “Okay, don’t be mad.”
You frown. “Why would I be mad?”
“Well, you know how we’re all on YouTube?”
Your frown deepens. “Yeah. I’m pretty familiar with Boone’s camera in my face.”
Boone chuckles to himself.
“Okay, so,” Kate goes on, “I have this old friend from Muskogee State. We occasionally chat about weather stuff—exchange articles, send storm photos, nothing crazy—but when I told him we were in Norman, he asked to catch up.”
You lift a hand to interrupt. “Uh, I’m failing to see how this has anything to do with me?”
She leans further forward. “I’m getting there, okay?”
“Okay,” you mutter, dropping your hand. “Go on.”
She nods. “Right, so—he’s actually a chaser too, kind of—and he watches Tyler’s channel, so I asked him to come to the bar tonight. I thought it’d be cool for him to meet everyone, but—” She hesitates, taking a deep breath. “Then he told me he’s got this, like, massive crush on you—from seeing you in Tyler’s videos—and he asked if I’d set you guys up on a... date.”
Heat floods your chest, panic prickling beneath your skin as your heart starts beating too fast and too hard.
“You set me up on a surprise blind date?”
“Technically,” she says, “it’s not a surprise because I’m telling you right now.”
Your eyes widen. “We’re on our way to the fucking bar, Kate.”
She winces. “I know, I know! I’m sorry, I just—he’s such a nice guy, and I knew if I asked you, you’d say no, but I honestly think you might really like him.”
“You knew I'd say no, so you tricked me?”
“Tricked is a little dramatic,” she mutters.
You drop your head back against the headrest. “I’m allowed to be dramatic when I’m being forced into a date I didn’t agree to.”
She sighs. “It’s not really a date. I just agreed to introduce you, and—” She hesitates. “Well, I might’ve said you were excited to meet him.”
Your head snaps toward her. “Excited? Seriously? The only thing I’m excited about is a shot of tequila and some fucking tacos.”
Tyler chuckles. “This is going even worse than I thought it would.”
You lean past Kate to look at him, brow furrowed. “You knew about this?”
“Of course.” He lifts a shoulder. “I also knew you’d hate it—because you’re clearly hung up on someone else.”
Your stomach drops, breath catching in your throat—and for a second, your lungs forget how to work. Tyler glances at you, his lips twitching, and Kate tilts her head, brows knitting.
You clear your throat. “What—what do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” Tyler says, his tone almost too casual. “I don’t know who, but I know—”
“We’re here!” Kate cuts in, pointing out the windscreen.
Just like she’d described, the bar’s front terrace is draped with strings and strings of fairy lights—bright enough to light up half the street. Tyler turns the truck into the gravel driveway, tyres crunching as he rolls into the last free parking spot in the lot.
“Damn, it’s busy,” Boone says as he pushes open his door.
You all climb out and start walking around to the front of the bar. You’re careful not to walk too close to Tyler—or even look at him—in case he decides to start interrogating you about whoever it is he thinks you’re hung up on.
Which you’re not.
You’re not hung up on anyone. Tyler’s just misinformed, or overly suspicious. He’s convinced himself of something completely ridiculous just so he has some kind of explanation for your weird behaviour. But he’s wrong. Very wrong. You’re not hung up on anyone. Especially not Scott.
“Ready?” Kate asks, bumping her shoulder against yours.
You narrow your eyes at her. “Ready for the date I didn’t agree to?”
“Come on,” she sighs. “It’s not a date, it’s an introduction. And he’s great, I think you’re going to love him.”
You roll your eyes as she links her arm through yours, guiding you toward the bar’s front door behind the rest of the crew. You have no idea where Dexter, Dani, and Javi came from—or where they parked the RV—but they’re all chatting excitedly as they cross the brightly lit terrace.
Inside is almost jarringly dim, lit only by the warm glow of multicoloured lights casting soft patterns across the terracotta walls. There are dark wooden tables and chairs scattered between small booths, potted plants clustered in corners, and brightly coloured prints that make the whole place feel alive. Behind the bar, bottles of tequila and mezcal catch the light, stacked haphazardly on tiered shelving beside other bottles of liquor you don’t recognise. The air smells faintly of lime, grilled peppers, fried corn chips—and sweat, because the place is absolutely packed with storm chasers.
“Holy shit,” you mutter, leaning into Kate. “How are we even supposed to—”
“Guys!” Lily calls over the music and chatter. “This way—Tyler's got a booth!”
You and Kate exchange a dubious look—brows drawn, eyes narrowed—but then she sighs and starts tugging you toward where Lily had gestured. “That damn Tyler Owens effect.”
You both squeeze through the crowd until you spot your crew crowded around a corner booth, chatting with another chaser you don’t recognise—probably the person who gave up their table the second they saw Tyler Owens walk in.
“I need a drink,” you mutter.
“In a sec.” Kate pulls out her phone and squints at the screen. “Caleb texted saying he just parked.”
You roll your eyes but keep your mouth shut—you’re not in the mood to keep arguing about this stupid surprise date. All you want is good food, a strong drink, and to stay as far away from Tyler as possible. You don’t need an inquisition into your dating life on top of a date you didn’t even ask for.
“He’s here!” Kate announces, looping her arm through yours. “I told him we’d meet at the bar.”
You let her drag you back through the crowd, trying—unsuccessfully—to keep your eyes down. To not search the room for someone familiar. Someone head and shoulders above the rest, probably standing at the edge of the crowd, blue eyes finding you too easily in the overpacked room.
God. You hate that you want to see him here. You hate that right now, he’d be your escape from all this. And you hate more than anything that you’re disappointed when you don’t find him.
“Caleb!” Kate exclaims, dropping your arm.
She moves ahead of you to hug the man before stepping back with a wide grin.
“Caleb, this is—”
“I know,” he chuckles, offering his hand. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
You force a smile, hoping it looks more genuine than it feels. “Hi. You too. Kate’s told me... so much.”
He’s cute, sure. Tall—but not that tall. Nice smile—no dimples, though. Green eyes—you've always preferred blue.
“Do you want a drink?” he asks.
You nod. “Absolutely.”
Kate steps up to the bar first, and you squeeze in beside her. You order a drink and a shot of tequila—for courage, of course, which Caleb laughs at awkwardly—then move aside to make space for someone else. Caleb finds a free tall table, and Kate mutters something about checking on Tyler before slipping away quickly, leaving you with the date you never asked for.
“So,” he says, leaning in slightly, “how's the season been so far?”
You shrug. “Pretty good. Yesterday was a bust, but today made up for it—” you gesture toward the crowd, “—hence the celebration. What about you? What are you doing in Norman?”
He chuckles softly, gaze dropping to the table. “If you feel it, chase it, right?”
You frown. “You’re with a crew?”
“Oh. No, not like that.” He shakes his head. “No, I—um, I’m just trying to get out of my comfort zone, you know? Take chances I wouldn’t normally take. Live a little. Embrace the universe.”
Your brows lift. “Oh?”
Great. Kate’s set you up with a human TED Talk.
“Yeah.” He smiles softly, scratching the back of his neck. “Sometimes I need a little push to do something that scares me.”
You snort into your drink, almost spilling it. “Yeah, right. And that’s... me?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Maybe. I’m not sure yet. You seem… complicated. Dangerous in a very specific way.”
“Dangerous?” you echo, unable to stop the laugh that bubbles up. “Me?”
“Maybe,” he says again, leaning back just slightly, “but I kind of like it.”
You have to look away, drawing a deep breath to push down the laughter building in your chest—and then, out of the corner of your eye, you see him. Stepping through the doorway, scanning the room. Not smiling. Not even close. His eyes catch yours, just for a second, and then he looks away. His expression doesn’t change, he doesn't even blink—he just turns and starts cutting through the crowd.
And you hate it. You hate that your heart starts racing, that heat floods your skin, that you want him to react. You hate that he has such an effect on you—and that you don’t seem to have any effect on him at all.
Caleb nudges your arm. “Are you okay?”
You whip back around, blinking fast. “Yeah—yep, sorry. Thought I saw someone I knew, but—”
“Those StormPAR guys?”
You tilt your head. “You know StormPAR?”
He nods. “Of course. I actually tried to reach out to them last year for a research paper I was working on, but they’re not particularly friendly. Or at least, that Scott guy isn’t.”
You snort into your drink. “Yeah, he’s a dick.”
“You know him?”
“Not really,” you reply—too fast. “I mean, I’ve met him, but I—um, I don't really know him, you know? Just heard things.” You tip your drink to your lips and drain the glass before smacking it on the table. “Anyway, let’s talk about you. What do you do for work?”
It isn’t hard to keep Caleb talking. With the right questions, you barely have to do anything more than nod and hum every few minutes so he thinks you’re paying attention. But really, the only time you are paying attention is when he asks if you need another drink. That’s when you say yes, tell him you’ll go to the bar, and order a shot of tequila alongside your next drink.
By your third—or sixth—drink, you’re feeling a little giddy, and that’s when you try to convince yourself you could go for Caleb. Even just for one night. He’s not unattractive—not that you’re that shallow—and there’s nothing overly off-putting about him, he’s just... nice. Boring. A little shorter than you’d like, with green eyes and no dimples. But you could get past that. He doesn’t have to be your exact type for you to sleep with him. You can always just close your eyes and picture what you want—that’s what you always used to do.
Before Scott.
But Caleb’s looks aren’t the problem. The problem is that even when you try to have fun—when you crack a joke or try to start a bit of banter—he doesn’t get it. He just stares at you, blankly, as if trying to decide whether you’re being mean or if your sense of humour is really that bad.
You honestly have no idea why Kate thought you’d hit it off with this guy, but you definitely plan on asking her what the hell she was thinking the second you see her again.
“Hey,” Caleb says suddenly, nudging your elbow. “Are you sure you don’t know that StormPAR guy?”
You turn to follow his gaze across the bar—and the moment you see him, your breath catches.
He’s standing by the far wall, half-lit by a string of multicoloured lights, blue eyes locked on you across the crowd. His face is unreadable, carved into something calm and careful, but then you see it—the tiny twitch in his jaw, the way his gaze narrows just slightly.
The noise of the bar dulls, everything blurring around the edges until it’s just him.
You know you’re drunk now—or at least halfway there—because now, you want him. And you’re not about to admit it out loud, but you are about to do something stupid just to get his attention.
“Be right back,” you tell Caleb, already sliding your empty glass off the table. “I need another drink.”
You don’t wait for a response—you just slip off your stool and start weaving quickly through the crowd, heart beating too hard behind your ribs. You don’t head for the nearest end of the bar like any normal person would—no, you keep going. Through the noise and across that imaginary line you know you shouldn’t cross. All the way to the far end of the bar.
The end closest to him.
You tell yourself it’s because it’s quieter over here. Less crowded. Easier to get a drink.
It’s not because of Scott. Definitely not. Why would it be?
You squeeze between two guys in denim jackets and plant your hands on the sticky bar top, exhaling hard. The bartender catches your eye, smiles, and lifts a finger—wait.
That’s fine. You can wait. You’re calm. You’re composed. You’re totally not standing here hoping—
A shift in the air beside you makes your skin prickle.
You don’t even have to look.
You just know.
He doesn’t say anything as he steps up next to you—doesn’t even look at you at first—just rests his forearms on the bar and scans the liquor shelves like he didn’t just suck every molecule of oxygen out of your lungs with his presence alone. He’s close—close enough that his shoulder almost brushes yours. Close enough that you can feel the heat coming off his body. Close enough that every cell—every want, every need—in your body turns traitorous.
You keep your eyes forward, and force a breath. You can do that—you can breathe. You've been doing it your whole life. In. Out.
You don’t look at him. You refuse to.
But you want to.
God, you want to.
You’re drunk and you want to.
You want him.
You want him with a hunger that feels stitched into your bones—messy, reckless, selfish—but you still force your expression blank, trying to cage whatever’s clawing inside your chest. You can’t want him. You’re not supposed to want him. Not anymore. Not ever. Because last time was the last time.
Right?
“You move on fast.”
Your pulse jumps at his voice—low, even, almost bored, but edged with something sharp. Something that slides under your skin and makes your spine straighten.
“Didn’t realise I needed your permission.”
He huffs out a quiet breath. “Never said you did.”
“No.” You keep your eyes fixed on a bottle of absinth across the bar. “But you felt the need to comment.”
He still doesn’t look at you. “Just surprised, that’s all.”
You finally glance at him—and instantly regret it. He’s relaxed. Casual. Like this is just another Saturday night and not another stupidly dangerous game you’re both playing. His expression gives you nothing. No irritation. No jealousy. No trace of the last time he had you pinned against his bedroom door breathing your name like a warning and a prayer.
So maybe you imagined it. Maybe you’re just reading into things that aren’t there.
“Why do you care?” you ask.
“I don’t.”
You scoff. “Sounds like you do.”
He doesn’t bite. He doesn’t rise to it. He just shrugs, gaze still on the bar shelves as if he has never once in his life been affected by you. “You can do whatever—whoever—you want. Just didn’t think he was your type.”
“Really?” You lean an elbow on the bar, heat flickering in your chest. “And what exactly do you think my type is?”
That finally gets him to look at you. Slow. Controlled. Like he’s already decided he’s going to ruin you and is just taking his time. His eyes drop to your mouth—just for a heartbeat—but it’s enough to make heat curl low in your stomach.
“You don’t want me to answer that,” he says.
“Try me.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. His gaze drags over you—neck, mouth, eyes—before he leans in just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.
“That guy over there? He has no idea what to do with a woman like you,” he says, voice low enough that no one but you could possibly hear him. “I saw the way you looked at him. And I see the way you’re looking at me now.”
Your pulse stutters.
His mouth curves—not a smile. Something sharper. Something possessive. Something certain.
“So no,” he murmurs. “I’m not jealous. Because we both know who you really want to go home with tonight.”
Your skin feels too hot, too tight, like your pulse is lodged in your throat. You can barely breathe. Barely think. And you hate—more than anything—that he’s right.
But he can’t know that. You can’t let him know that.
“You’re out of your mind,” you say, forcing your eyes away from his to find the bartender. “I don’t—” Your voice catches. “I might not want him, but I don’t want you either.”
His gaze flickers—sharp, assessing. He doesn’t believe you. He doesn’t even pretend to.
“No?” he says casually, as if you’re discussing something as menial as the weather.
You meet his gaze again, keeping your expression carefully blank. “No.”
He hums, unconvinced. “Could’ve fooled me.”
You grit your teeth. “Not everything revolves around you.”
“Never said it did.”
“Then drop it.”
But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. His eyes stay on yours, steady and unblinking, like he’s the only person who’s ever truly seen you.
“Just one question,” he murmurs.
You hate that you answer. “What?”
He tilts his head, voice softening—dangerously so—and lifts a hand, his knuckles skimming just beneath your jaw, light as breath. “Why is your pulse racing?”
Your breath stutters. Heat floods your chest, crawling up your neck until you forget how to breathe entirely. He’s closer now—crowding you in a way that only makes your heart beat harder, faster. Every nerve ending is suddenly awake, aware of him, of the brush of his skin, of how impossible it is to pretend you don’t want this. Don’t want him.
You almost forget where you are. You almost lean in.
But then—
“Sorry, folks. What can I get you?”
You startle, turning toward the bartender too fast and stumbling back a step—right into the man standing on your other side. He grumbles something, clearly annoyed, but before you can mutter an apology, Scott’s hand closes around your elbow, pulling you back to him. Steadying you. Anchoring you. In more ways than you care to admit.
“Two tequila shots,” he tells the bartender. “And two beers.”
He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even spare you a glance. He just keeps his hand on your arm, thumb brushing once—absent, thoughtless—while you stand there like an idiot, staring up at him.
Close. Way too close.
Close enough to see the tiny crease between his brows as he watches the beer pour. Close enough to see the faint scar along his cheek—old, healed over—from when he fell off his bike as a kid. He told you the story one night, somewhere between argument and orgasm. You’re close enough to count the darker flecks in his blue eyes, watch his lashes lower as he speaks, trace the shape of his mouth—God, that mouth.
Your gaze drifts without permission—from the curve of his bottom lip to the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw and down the line of his throat where it disappears beneath his shirt collar. You hate that your breath trips. You hate that your body betrays you. You hate that he’s not even looking at you—and somehow that makes it worse.
“Thanks,” he says to the bartender, finally releasing your arm.
And only then does he glance down at you—casual, unbothered—like he didn’t just reach into your chest and close a hand around your lungs. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, something that feels too close to a promise.
He steps back, mouth curving into that almost-smirk. The one he wears when he can’t help himself. Subtle. Smug. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you and he’s enjoying every second of it.
“Be good,” he murmurs, his arm grazing yours as he turns to leave.
It shouldn’t sound like a warning—but it does.
He doesn’t wait for a response. He doesn’t even look back. He just walks away, cutting through the crowd with ease, drink in hand—and you’re left with both tequila shots and an overflowing pint of beer.
For a second you just stand there, staring at the empty spot where he’d been, trying to convince yourself you’re not actually affected. You drag a hand through your hair and pretend your pulse isn’t still racing, that your body isn’t still tuned to the space he occupied seconds ago. God. You hate this. You hate that one man—that man—can reduce you to static and adrenaline with nothing but a look and a stupid two-word warning.
But you don’t want him. You don’t. Not really. You’re just drunk—and Scott is just being Scott. Cocky. Infuriating. Getting under your skin in the way only he knows how.
You reach for the first tequila shot and knock it back, then the second before you can think too hard about it, heat burning down your throat. Then you grab the beer and square your shoulders, willing your heartbeat to slow as you turn to head back to the table.
You make it about halfway before someone steps in front of you. Someone you’re really not in the mood to deal with right now.
“What was that?”
You look up at Tyler, your nose inches from his chest. “What was what?”
“That.” He nods toward the bar. “Whatever the hell just happened between you and StormPAR.”
Heat creeps up the back of your neck. “Nothing. He was just—you know how he is. Being a dick. Trying to annoy me.”
“You didn’t look annoyed.”
You tip your chin up. “That’s because I’m mature.”
Tyler snorts—loudly. “Mature?”
You narrow your eyes. “Yes. Mature.”
“You and Boone giggle every time the temperature hits sixty-nine degrees.” He leans in, lowering his voice. “And I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you were just looking at StormPAR.”
“His name is Scott,” you say before you can stop yourself.
You roll your eyes, hoping the bar is too dim for Tyler to notice the colour in your cheeks. “I’m not defending him, I just—he has a name. You know his name.”
“And I’d be willing to bet you know a whole lot more than just his name.”
Your stomach drops. “I—what? What’re you—”
“Hey,” Caleb interrupts, his hand landing on your shoulder. “I was looking for you. Thought you’d gotten lost.”
You don’t even look at him. You keep your eyes locked on Tyler. His mouth is quirked into a small smirk—challenging, smug—and his stare is unwavering. He’s looking at you like he already knows, like he doesn’t need a confession to see right through your lies.
“Oh, sorry,” Caleb says. “Am I interrupting—”
“No,” you say quickly, whipping toward him. “Tyler was just offering to buy another round.”
Caleb frowns. “Didn’t you just get one?”
You shrug. “I’m not going to say no to a free drink.”
Tyler gives you a look—one you don’t recognise, which is strange considering how long you’ve known him. But you don’t react. You don’t let him see that he might actually be onto something. You just reach out, grab his arm, and start dragging him toward the bar—assuming Caleb is somewhere in tow.
- Scott -
He’s not watching you. Not really.
He’s just… aware of you.
Aware of the scarlet lip stain on the rim of your beer glass. Aware of the warmth in your skin under the dim glow of the bar lights. Aware of the way the crimson fabric of your top shifts when you move.
You’re still at the bar, with Tyler on your left and Caleb on your right—but Caleb might as well not exist. You’re half-turned toward Tyler, your hand on his arm and your head tipped back so you can meet his gaze. Too close. Too comfortable. You’ve got that same spark in your eyes you get when you’re trying too hard not to care. He knows what that looks like. He’s seen it before.
He takes a slow sip of beer, eyes lingering just long enough to catch your reflection in the mirror behind the bar. You tilt your head, smiling at something Tyler says, clearly biting back a laugh as you lean in a little closer. It’s easy. Natural. A familiarity born of long days, longer nights, near-death experiences, and years of friendship.
He tells himself it’s good. It’s normal. You should be smiling. Laughing. You should be able to talk, touch, lean in to whoever the hell you want.
He doesn’t care.
He really doesn’t.
It’s just—he knows you better than most. He knows what that smile looks like when it’s real, and what it looks like when it’s armour. And the one you’re wearing now? It’s the latter.
He glances away before he can read any more into it, fingers drumming once against his glass.
He’s not waiting for you to come find him again. He just knows that you will.
That you’ll trip back into him by the end of the night.
You always do.
“Who’s that?”
Scott turns to the man standing beside him—Mateo, the newest member of StormPAR.
“Who?”
Mateo nods toward the bar. “The girl in red.”
Scott’s gaze drifts slowly back to you. “She chases with Tyler Owens’ crew.”
“Tyler Owens the YouTube guy?” Mateo asks.
Scott nods. “Yep.”
“I thought you hated him.”
“I do,” Scott mutters, his eyes narrowing at Tyler’s hand resting on your lower back.
“Then what about her?” Mateo presses. “You two seemed kind of... friendly.”
Scott drags his eyes away from you, back to Mateo. “We went to college together. We’re friends.”
Something in Mateo’s expression shifts—excitement, maybe. “Just friends?”
Scott nods again, lifting his beer to his lips and hoping that’s the end of the conversation.
A beat passes. Mateo shifts on his feet. And then—
“So you won’t mind if I talk to her?”
Scott’s jaw flexes. He takes another slow sip of beer, eyes flicking once—just once—back to where you’re standing. Then he looks at Mateo.
“Sure,” he says, voice even. “Go ahead.”
He pauses, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.
“Try.”
Then he tips his head back, drains the rest of his beer, and drops the empty glass on a nearby table. When he looks back at the bar, you’re gone—but it doesn’t take long for him to spot you weaving through the crowd toward the back hallway.
And then—of course—Mateo moves. Undeterred.
He stops you just before the hall, only a few feet from where Scott is standing. Scott doesn’t need to turn or edge closer—he just tilts his head slightly, listening in. He can hear enough over the hum of the bar—the clink of bottles, the muted bassline, the way Mateo’s voice pitches low and smooth.
“Hey,” Mateo says. “You’re with Tyler Owens’ crew, right?”
You glance up, caught off guard, your tone coming out sharper than you probably mean it to. “Yeah. Why?”
“Just wanted to say hi,” Mateo replies, his grin audible. “Didn’t realise chasers could look like you.”
You pause, staring at him for a moment, your expression flat. “Wow. Original.”
Scott’s mouth twitches.
Mateo chuckles awkwardly, trying again. “I thought maybe I could buy you a drink. Do you—”
“No, thanks,” you cut in. “I’m good.”
Then your gaze flicks over Mateo’s shoulder, meeting Scott’s. Your eyes widen, brows pulling tight, and Scott can’t help but smirk. He knows that look. You’re about five minutes from starting a fight that’ll end with his head between your legs.
“See you around,” you say to Mateo, voice tight, as you step around him.
You head straight down the hall toward the bathrooms, disappearing into the dark—and it takes a lot more self-control than usual for Scott not to follow. Not to take you right here in this bar, in the narrow bathroom stall, his hand over your mouth to muffle your moans. It’s not like the two of you haven’t done it before—just never with both your crews so close by. Never with Tyler’s eyes following you like you’re his.
Scott’s never questioned your friendship with Tyler before. Not once.
He knows the history—how you met in your last year of college, how you started chasing storms together, how you’ve been part of his crew ever since. He sees the way the two of you move around each other in the field—quick, in sync, like a rhythm you’ve practiced for years. He’s always chalked it up to familiarity. Trust built on adrenaline and close calls.
But lately... it feels different.
Everything feels different.
It doesn’t bother him. Not really. Not the way Tyler leans in when he talks to you, or the way you look at him with that easy, practiced grin. The two of you have always been close. That’s all it is.
But one question keeps looping back, uninvited.
Has Tyler ever touched you like he has?
Has he ever had you pinned beneath him, cheeks flushed, lips parted, panting his name?
God. He hates this feeling—whatever it is. This green-eyed, gut-wrenching twist in his stomach that he refuses to name.
He takes a slow breath, jaw tightening as he watches you reemerge from the hallway. You’ve still got that look on your face—head high, mouth set, eyes daring anyone to try again—he knows it better than most. He’s seen it a hundred times. Hell, he’s probably caused it more than anyone else.
Something shifts in his chest as he watches you move through the crowd, and he hates that it feels almost like pride. Like he has any right to be proud of you. Like he has any right to think—even for a second—that you’re his.
It doesn’t matter, though. None of it does. Not Tyler, not Mateo, not any of the other guys whose eyes you’ve caught tonight. You can do whatever you want. Be with whoever you want.
It doesn’t matter.
But... truth is, it’s getting harder to believe that.
Harder to ignore the pull in his chest every time you’re near, the way his thoughts still circle back to you long after he’s told himself to let it go.
It’s not just about sex anymore. He knows that.
He’s not sure it’s ever been just about sex.
But he’s not ready to admit that. Not yet.
Especially not when you’re storming toward him—eyes blazing, shoulders tense, cheeks almost as red as your lips. You stop right in front of him, close enough that he can smell the tequila and salt on your breath.
“What the fuck was that?”
Scott blinks, slow and deliberate. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
Your brows draw tighter. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That thing where you play dumb. You sent your little StormPAR rookie over to hit on me.”
He keeps his voice even, almost bored. “I didn’t send him anywhere.”
“Oh, please.” You laugh, sharp and humourless. “He walks up to me not ten minutes after you told me to ‘be good’? Come on. You wanted to see what I’d do.”
Scott exhales through his nose, gaze flicking briefly toward the bar before finding yours again. “You handled it fine.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“The point is you don’t get to play games with me like that,” you snap. “You don’t get to—”
“To what?” he cuts in, stepping forward. “To see how fast it takes you to lose your shit?”
Your eyes narrow. “I’m not losing my shit.”
“I don’t know,” he says, voice low. “Sure seems like you are.”
You laugh, incredulous. “You’re unbelievable.”
He smirks. “You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”
“God, you’re such an ass.”
“Yeah?” His eyes drop to your hands, balled into fists at your sides. “And you’re shaking. Why’s that?”
Your jaw tightens. “Maybe because I’m trying not to punch you.”
His gaze flicks back up, and he leans in—close enough to feel the warmth of your breath on his lips. “Yeah, that’s what you’re trying not to do.”
For a second, neither of you speak. The air between you feels thick and electric, the noise of the bar fading until all Scott can hear is the rush of blood in his ears. You’re close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off your skin, can hear the faint hitch of your breath when he leans in just enough to test you.
You don’t back down. Neither does he. Your gaze flicks between his mouth and his eyes, like you can’t decide what you want—and it’s driving him insane.
He shouldn’t want you this much. Shouldn’t need it this badly.
But he does.
“Hey,” Javi says, appearing beside the two of you. “You two good?”
Scott doesn’t look away—he just shifts slightly, easing back half a step and forcing a breath that feels a little too shaky. “Yeah,” he says, voice smooth. “Just catching up.”
Your cheeks flush even deeper, and a small, smug smile tugs at his mouth before he can stop it. You glare at him, jaw tight, eyes sharp, like you’re daring him to say one more thing—and he almost does, just to see how far you’ll take it.
But then you move. Just a small step forward, close enough that he feels it. Feels something. A faint brush against his hip, the slight tug of fabric. It’s subtle enough that Javi doesn’t notice, but Scott does. His brow furrows for barely a second before you’re already stepping back.
“I’m tired,” you mutter, eyes still locked on his. “I’m heading out.”
You don’t look at Javi. You don’t even wait for a response. You just turn and push through the crowd, disappearing into the noise and haze of the bar. Scott watches you go, something tight pulling in his chest, and it’s only when the room starts to blur around the edges that his hand brushes his pocket—and he realises what’s missing.
Then he sees it.
Your hand, slipping through the last gap in the crowd, his motel key glinting between your fingers.
For a moment, everything else fades—the noise, the lights, the people pressing in on all sides. It’s just that image, sharp and bright in his mind. The curl of your fingers. The slow burn of anticipation settling low in his chest.
Scott exhales, slow and steady. He shouldn’t still be smiling, but he is.
“Damn,” Javi mutters beside him. “Kinda wish I knew what happened between you two.”
Scott huffs out something close to a laugh, shaking his head. “Nothing happened.”
Javi raises a brow. “Yeah, sure. And I’m dating a Victoria’s Secret supermodel.”
Scott looks at him, forcing his mouth into a flat line. “Drop it, Javi.”
“Alright, alright.” Javi lifts his hands in mock surrender, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Just saying, man—whatever that was, whatever it is you two are always arguing about? It’s not nothing.”
Scott drops his gaze to the floor, unsure how to respond. What’s he supposed to say to that? You’re right, Javi, we’ve been sleeping together for years, and every time we’re within fifty feet of each other the sexual tension is suffocating. Oh, and I’m pretty sure there’s something else I can’t admit to myself, so I’m just gonna keep pretending I’m fine with this mess of a situation.
Pfft. Yeah, right.
He drags a hand along his jaw and glances back up, eyes flicking once more toward the crowd where you’d disappeared. “I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” he says, keeping his voice even—casual.
Javi lifts his chin, still grinning. “Go for it.”
Scott meets his grin with a brief nod before turning away, slipping into the crowd before the conversation can go anywhere else. He keeps his pace easy, unhurried—like he’s actually heading for the bathroom, not the back door. The bass thuds through the floor beneath his boots, lights flashing over faces he doesn’t bother to look at.
The noise dulls as he moves farther from the bar, replaced by the low hum of the overhead lights and the echo of footsteps on tile. He’s halfway down the hall when the men’s bathroom door swings open—and Tyler steps out.
For a moment, they just look at each other. Tyler’s brow lifts, curious, maybe suspicious, but Scott doesn’t give him anything—just a single nod, the kind that ends a conversation before it starts—and keeps walking.
He can feel Tyler’s gaze linger on his back as he reaches the end of the hall, but he doesn’t turn around. The exit door pushes open with a low creak, spilling the sounds of the bar out into the night. Cool air rushes in, brushing against his skin and chasing away the heat that’s been sitting under it since you left.
He steps outside, the door closing behind him, and finally—finally—he feels like he can breathe.
The walk to his truck is a blur of gravel crunching beneath his boots and breath fogging the air. His pulse thrums in his ears, alive in every inch of his skin. It’s not that cold. Not really. Scott’s just warm—too warm—and a little flustered.
Maybe it’s the adrenaline. Or maybe it’s that thing he still refuses to admit.
He shakes his head as he reaches the truck, yanking the door open and climbing inside. The cab still smells damp from today’s chase, a mix of rain, sweat, and asphalt clinging to the seats. He turns the key, clips his belt, and lets the engine idle for a few seconds before pulling out of the small parking lot.
He doesn’t speed—he doesn’t need to. He just rolls down the road slowly, eyes scanning the sidewalk.
It takes all of ten seconds for him to find you—and when he does, his stomach flips hard enough to make him feel a little sick.
That’s new.
He slows to a stop beside you, one hand loose on the wheel as the other hits the button for the window to roll down. “You planning to walk the whole way?”
You look at him, eyes narrowed. “Maybe I am.”
He smirks. “Suit yourself. It’s a long walk.”
You roll your eyes, muttering something under your breath as you yank open the passenger door. Your scent hits him the second you climb in—tequila, night air, and that sweet vanilla bodywash that always makes his pulse skip. The cab suddenly feels smaller when you slam the door shut, and for a heartbeat, neither of you says a word.
Then you move.
You lean across the console, grab a fistful of his shirt, and your mouth finds his like you’ve been holding your breath for hours. The impact steals it from him completely. It’s fast, rough, desperate—the kind of kiss that leaves no space for thought. His hand slides up to your jaw, fingers tangling in your hair as you climb over the console, straddling him without breaking contact.
It’s cramped, clumsy—but neither of you care. You taste like salt and adrenaline, every breath a ragged sound against his lips. His hands find your waist, dragging you closer, and you make a sound that goes straight through him. When you finally pull back—just far enough for air—your voice is wrecked and breathless.
“Took you long enough.”
Scott laughs low, voice hot against your lips. “Did it?”
You don’t answer—you just kiss him again, harder this time, and he lets you take what you want, lets himself get lost in the heat and weight of it. The cab feels too small, the air too thick, the world narrowing to the press of your body and the slick slide of your mouth on his.
You gasp against him when his fingers dig into your hips, a sound that makes his control slip another inch. You grind down, desperate, and his hands tighten instinctively, holding you there. Your hands move restlessly—gripping his shoulders, sliding up his neck, tangling in his hair until his StormPAR cap falls somewhere between the seats.
It’s only when you roll your hips again, harder this time, that he pulls back—reluctantly—breathing hard against your lips. “Do you really want to do this here?”
You tilt your head and start tracing kisses along his jaw, your voice muffled against his skin. “Probably not.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating between you as you lift your head and rest your forehead against his, both trying to catch your breath. The air between you hums—thick and unsteady—the second-hand taste of tequila still sharp on his tongue, the sound of your mingled breathing louder than the low idle of the engine.
His hands linger at your waist, thumbs tracing slow, absent-minded circles against the warm stretch of skin just below that damn crimson top. He could sit here for hours, he thinks, just breathing you in. But reason creeps back in, hazy and reluctant.
He clears his throat. “We should probably move this somewhere else before someone walks by.”
You don’t move. If anything, your weight settles a little more fully against him, the ghost of a smile brushing his lips when you murmur, “You worried about getting caught?”
He huffs, low and amused. “Not really.” His fingers tighten at your hips, keeping you there for one more beat before he exhales. “I’m lucky I made it out at all, actually. Your boyfriend almost stopped me.”
That gets you to lift your head, eyes narrowing. “My what?”
Scott shifts in his seat, trying to play it off like he hadn’t said it just to see how you’d react. “Tyler,” he says, keeping his tone carefully even. “He saw me leaving out the back. Looked like he was going to say something, but I didn’t stop.”
You blink, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Tyler’s not my boyfriend.”
“He acts like it,” Scott mutters, jaw tightening.
You tilt your head, searching his face, that same small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth like you can see straight through him. “You jealous, Scott?”
He rolls his eyes, fingers flexing at your waist. “No.”
You hum softly, unconvinced, and finally start to shift off his lap. The movement is slow, deliberate—your hips dragging over his, the slide of denim against denim leaving heat in its wake. Scott’s fingers twitch like he wants to pull you back, but he doesn’t. He just watches you settle into the passenger seat, hair tousled, lips swollen, the faintest smirk playing on your mouth.
The silence that follows feels different now. Not awkward—just taut, stretched thin over everything neither of you is saying.
Scott clears his throat, shifting in his seat to discreetly adjust the tightness in his jeans before gripping the wheel. He shifts the truck into gear and glances at the mirrors—catching your reflection. Your head is tipped against the window, your expression a little dazed—thanks to the tequila, no doubt—but your smile is smug, like you know exactly what you’ve done to him.
The drive to the motel is mostly silent, save for the low hum of the engine and the soft crackle of the radio. Scott’s pulse never really settles—because every time you move, every shift of your leg or tilt of your head, his eyes flick toward you and all the blood in his body rushes south again.
You’re still leaning against the window, lashes low, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. And there isn’t anything he wouldn’t give to know what you’re thinking right now. To know if your pulse is still racing. To know if you’ve got your thighs pressed together for the same reason that his knuckles have gone white on the steering wheel.
God. This is dangerous.
Maybe you were right when you said it has to stop. Maybe you had a point.
Maybe he should put a stop to this before something—or someone—breaks.
But then your reflection tilts toward him again, lips still red and swollen from his kiss, and he knows he’s lying to himself.
The rest of the drive blurs by in flashes of passing headlights and rough-edged silence. You don’t speak. Neither does he. The air feels thick enough to touch, charged with the ghost of every breath you shared in that front seat. When the motel sign finally glows into view—faded neon cutting through the dark—Scott’s grip tightens on the wheel like it’s the only thing tethering him to sense.
He pulls into the gravel lot and kills the engine, the sudden quiet ringing in his ears. You unbuckle fast, fingers fumbling with the seatbelt before you shove the door open.
You’re out of the truck before he can reach for the handle. He climbs out a beat later, rounding the truck in a few long strides until he’s behind you. The space between you hums with static, and when you glance up at him—that’s all it takes. He leans down and catches your mouth in a quick, hungry kiss that’s more breath than contact, a promise of what’s coming.
You pull back just enough to whisper, “Room number?”
“Seven,” he says, voice low.
You nod once, already turning away, the sway of your hips an invitation that makes it hard for him to remember how to walk straight. He follows close behind, eyes fixed on you, jaw tight. By the time you reach the door, you’ve already got the key in hand, fumbling it into the lock while his breath ghosts over the back of your neck.
The second you both step inside, Scott kicks the door shut with a dull thud. The room smells faintly of dust and motel soap, the only light coming from the flickering lamp beside the bed. You barely make it two steps before his hand catches your wrist and pulls you back.
Then his mouth is on yours again.
It’s messy and hungry and too much all at once. You stumble until the backs of your knees hit the bed, his body pressing into yours as you fall back onto the mattress. His hands brace on either side of your head, and he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops.
Because he is. He can admit it now. He’s afraid that if he stops playing the game, you’ll disappear.
Your hands slide up his chest, over his shoulders, into his hair—dragging him out of his thoughts. He mutters something low against your lips, something that sounds like your name, then trails kisses over your cheek, along your jaw. His stubble scrapes against your throat as he drags his mouth lower, teeth grazing your pulse point.
“Scott—” you whisper, but it comes out more like a sigh.
He hums against your skin, the sound low, almost a growl. His hand drifts to your waist, thumb brushing bare skin, and he can feel your body tremble—feel how much you want this. And it’s intoxicating, knowing he’s the reason for the way you’re whimpering right now.
Then, between one kiss and the next, his voice drops low. “Just so we’re clear…” His breath hitches, lips brushing your jaw. “You and Tyler never—” he swallows hard, “—you know?”
You laugh, the sound breathless, your fingers curling in his shirt. “God, no.” It slips out fast, automatic, like the question doesn’t even register as serious. And then—still chasing his mouth, still drunk on tequila and him—you add without thinking, “I haven’t been with anyone since you.”
Scott stills—completely.
You don’t notice. You just find his mouth again, like nothing’s happened, while he’s frozen—heart pounding, brain short-circuiting—trying to decide if he really heard what he thinks he did.
And by the time he can finally breathe again, you’ve already pulled him back under.
- You -
It’s déjà vu.
The kind that settles heavy in your chest before you’ve even opened your eyes. The sheets are twisted around your legs, the air smells like stale sweat and tequila, and your mouth tastes like regret and toothpaste that isn't yours.
You don’t have to look to know where you are. Or who’s beside you.
It’s pathetic, really—how easy it is for you to fall back into him. How easy it is to tell yourself this is the last time while his arm is still heavy across your waist, his breath slow and even against the back of your neck.
It’s not your fault. Not really.
It’s his fault—and the tequila. Because if he’d just left you alone at the bar, you wouldn’t be here. If he’d just let you finish your bad date, you’d be waking up alone in your own motel room.
Not beside him.
Again.
With a heavy sigh, you quietly untangle your legs and slip out from beneath Scott’s arm. He stirs, but doesn’t fully wake—just shifts a little further onto your side and buries his face in your pillow.
For a moment, you just stare. You trace the angle of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the slope of his shoulders. Down the pale expanse of his back until his body disappears beneath the sheets. You don’t realise you’re holding your breath until your chest starts to ache—and only then do you turn away, shaking your head.
This can’t happen again. Ever.
It’s too dangerous.
You find your clothes a few feet from the bed and reluctantly pull them back on. Then you duck into the bathroom, splash your face with water, and try to make your hair look less like you just had your brains fucked out.
When you step back into the room, Scott’s awake. He’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, staring at his boxers—and it takes every ounce of your self-control to meet his eyes instead of letting your gaze drift lower.
“Hey,” you mutter, dropping into the small lounge chair to put on your shoes.
“Hey,” he mumbles, finally leaning forward to pick up his boxers.
This morning feels strange. Different. Like something broke last night, and now whatever it is you two have been doing feels wrong—not just wrong because you’ve been sneaking around, but because something in it has shifted.
You just don’t know what.
“This can’t happen again,” you say, voice firm. “I’m serious this time.”
He glances up at you, eyes wide, expression unreadable. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him not acting like a smug prick the morning after. But today? He doesn’t look smug at all. There’s something else in his gaze you can’t quite name. Something sincere. Something real. Too real.
You clear your throat. “It—it’s too dangerous. Tyler’s already onto us. It’s just not worth it.”
His brows lift, just slightly. “Not worth it?”
“You know what I mean,” you sigh.
He braces his elbows on his knees. “Yeah,” he mutters. “You’re right.”
You almost trip on your way to find your second shoe. “You’re... agreeing with me?”
He shrugs, but something about it’s too tense to be casual. “It’s dangerous. We should stop.”
Something twists deep in your chest—sharp, sudden, gone before you can name it. The back of your throat burns and thickens, as if you’re about to cry. But no—that would be ridiculous. You’re just hungover. Sleep-deprived. Probably hungry.
You swallow hard. “Good. Then we’re on the same page.”
He doesn’t answer—he just watches you, quiet and unmoving, his hands clasped between his knees, knuckles white. His jaw works once, like he’s biting back something he won’t let himself say—and for a heartbeat, you almost ask what it is.
But the look in his eyes makes your chest feel too tight, so you move instead.
You tear your gaze away, slip on your shoe, and start searching for your phone tangled somewhere in the sheets at the bottom of the bed. Once you find it, you straighten, adjust your shirt that doesn’t really need adjusting, and head toward the door.
“I guess I’ll... see you?”
He nods once. “See you around.”
You hesitate, hand resting on the doorknob, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs. For a second, you think he’s going to say something—his head lifts, his brows draw tighter—but the silence stretches, heavy and unbroken.
Why does it feel like this?
Before you can give in to the stupid, aching urge to stay, you force yourself to open the door and step out. And it hurts. For some reason, it hurts.
Your chest gets tighter the farther you walk from his motel room. Your head feels fuzzy, your hands won’t stop shaking, and there’s a voice buried deep in the back of your mind screaming at you to turn around.
You’ve never felt like this before. Not with Scott. Not with anyone. And you have no idea why.
All you do know is that this—whatever this was—really does feel like the end.
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