I stare at the satellite imagery until my eyes burn, tracking the pressure system that's been building off the coast for three days. Numbers and wind patterns blur together on my screen which is usually comforting. Today though, each data point feels like it's plotting the growing distance between Dakota and me. Three weeks, four days, and approximately seven hours since I left Charleston—not that I'm counting. My phone sits silent beside my keyboard, our last text exchange still open.
"Miss Baker? The director wants these projections by four."
I blink away from the screen, nodding at my colleague. "Tell him I'm almost done."
When I'm alone again, my fingers hover over my phone. Dakota sent a picture last night—him in full hockey gear, a grin, sweat making his hair stick to his forehead.
Dakota: Miss those green eyes of yours.
I'd responded with a storm front photo and some joke about high pressure systems. Real smooth, Harmony.
The weeks since Charleston have settled into a pattern. Dakota texts in the morning, usually something flirty that makes me smile despite myself. I respond during lunch breaks. He calls late at night after games or practices. We talk randomness—his teammates' antics, my frustration with outdated weather models, how neither of us can cook worth a damn.
What we don't talk about: whatever this is between us, whether it's sustainable, or if the pull I feel toward him is stronger than the gravitational force of my career.
My screen blinks with an incoming call—not Dakota, but Director Simmons. I straighten automatically, clearing my throat before answering.
"Baker here."
"Harmony, glad I caught you. Need your eyes on this developing system. Models are showing conflicting outcomes."
I tab over to the radar data. "I'm looking at it now, sir. There's an unusual temperature gradient forming along the frontal boundary. I'd give it a sixty percent chance of intensification within the next twelve hours."
"That's what I thought too." His voice shifts, the official tone softening slightly. "Listen, there's something else I wanted to discuss with you. Got a minute?"
My stomach tightens. "Of course."
"The Advanced Prediction Initiative at NOAA headquarters is looking for a lead researcher. Your work on the tornado prediction model caught their attention." He pauses. "They specifically asked for you, Baker."
I’m shocked. The equipment is cutting-edge, the meteorological equivalent of NASA for weather nerds like me. It's the kind of opportunity that comes once in a career.
"That's... unexpected." My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
"They'd need you to relocate to D.C. Six-month commitment initially, likely extending to permanent if the project succeeds." He clears his throat. "Which, with you on board, it would."
My eyes drift to my phone, to Dakota's grinning face still lighting up the screen. D.C. is even farther from Charleston than Oklahoma.
"When would they need an answer?" I ask.
"A month. Take some time to think about it. Harmony—" his voice becomes serious, "—this is the kind of opportunity most meteorologists only dream about."
After we hang up, I sit motionless, staring out the window at the gathering clouds. The storm system I've been monitoring seems suddenly insignificant compared to the one brewing in my personal life.
My phone buzzes.
Dakota: Thinking about you. Game tonight. Wish you could be there.
I type and delete three different responses before settling on what to send.
Me: Good luck. I'll be watching.
The truth is, I've watched every game I can. Sometimes I mute the sound and run the forecasting models in the background, splitting my attention.
By six o'clock, I've finished the projections and am running a secondary analysis just to keep my mind occupied. The office has emptied out. I should go home, turn on the game, eat something besides the granola bar I had at noon, maybe even sleep before Dakota calls after his game.
Instead, I dial Marina.
"Well, if it isn't the weather witch herself," she answers on the second ring. "I was beginning to think you'd been carried off by a tornado."
"That would solve some problems," I mutter, leaning back in my chair.
"Whoa. That sounds ominous. What's up?"
I explain about the D.C. offer, words tumbling out faster than I can organize them. Marina listens without interrupting.
"So basically," she says when I finally pause for breath, "you've been offered your dream job, but you're hesitating because of Sexy Hockey Boy."
I wince. "When you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous."
"Not ridiculous. Human." She sighs, and I can picture her curling up on her couch. "Look, I've known you for what, six years now? In all that time, I've never seen you get this twisted up over a guy."
"I'm not twisted up," I protest weakly.
"Your voice goes up half an octave every time you mention him. You've watched hockey games, Harmony. You hate sports."
"I don't hate sports. I just find the statistical analysis more interesting than the actual gameplay."
"My point exactly," Marina says. "This thing with Dakota isn't nothing. But neither is D.C.."
I press my fingers to my temples. "What would you do?"
"I'd talk to him," she says simply. "Tell him about the offer, see how he reacts. His response will tell you a lot about whether this thing has legs."
"What if it doesn't?"
"Then you take the job and throw yourself into saving lives with your weather wizardry. And I come visit you in D.C. and we get drunk on overpriced cocktails while plotting how to save the planet from climate doom."
"You make it sound so simple."
"It's not, but keeping him in the dark won't make it any easier."
After we hang up, I stare at Dakota's contact photo for a long minute. It's not even a good picture—just him making a ridiculous face during our night at the beach bonfire. There's something so alive in his expression, so present in the moment. The opposite of how I usually operate, always looking ahead.
My fingers hover over the call button, but I stop when a notification pops up from the weather alert system. The storm system has intensified, exactly as I predicted. I should feel satisfied, but instead I just feel tired.
By the time I get home to my sparse apartment, it's after seven. I kick off my shoes, heat up a frozen dinner, and settle in front of my laptop to watch Dakota's game. The Renegades are playing well, and Dakota makes several impressive saves. The commentators praise his focus, his quick reflexes. I wonder if they can see what I see—the way his body language changes after each play, like he's looking for someone in the stands.
My phone rings just after eleven. Dakota's name lights up the screen.
"Hey," I answer, trying to sound casual.
"Miss Green Eyes." His voice is rough around the edges. "Did you see that save in the third period?"
"I did. Very impressive." I smile. "How's your knee?"
"Fine." He pauses. "Actually, it's sore as hell, but don't tell Coach."
"Your secret's safe with me."
"How about you? Save the world from any weather disasters today?"
I think about the D.C. offer, about what Marina said. About how this is the perfect moment to bring it up. "Just the usual. Tracking storms, making predictions."
"You sound tired." His voice softens. "Long day?"
"Yeah." I swallow hard, feeling the weight of all the things I'm not saying. "Dakota, there's something—"
My phone beeps with another call. Director Simmons again.
"Sorry, I have to take this. Work emergency."
"Go save the world, sweetheart. Call me back?"
"I will," I promise, but I already know I won't—not tonight, not about this.
The director's call is brief but urgent—the storm system has shifted, threatening coastal communities sooner than expected. I spend the next three hours coordinating with emergency management, refining models, making sure warnings go out. By the time I'm done, it's well past two in the morning, and my opportunity for a hard conversation with Dakota has slipped away.
I text him instead.
Me: Sorry about earlier. Work emergency. Storm system intensifying off the coast. Rain check on our chat?
His response comes quickly, making me wonder if he's been waiting up.
Dakota: Always. Just don't stand me up too many times, Miss Green Eyes. I might start to think you don't like me.
I type out a response… Me: There's something I need to talk to you about. Important career opportunity.
I look at those words for a long time, my thumb hovering over the send button. Then I delete them and retype something else.
Me: Never that. Just busy saving the world from bad weather. Talk tomorrow?
Dakota: Count on it.
I place my phone face-down on my nightstand and stare at the ceiling, listening to the light rain that's started outside my window.