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déjà vu (one) ; scott

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.

“That seemed kind of... loaded,” Tyler says, brows drawn.

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.

Tyler straightens, brows raised. “Now you’re defending him?”

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.

Like that really was the last time.

‧₊˚✧ PART TWO ‧₊˚✧

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

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