The wipers can barely keep up with the deluge, smearing raindrops across my windshield in hypnotic arcs. I white-knuckle the steering wheel of my Subaru, leaning forward as if those extra inches might help me see through the wall of water. The rain is my element—I've spent my entire career predicting it, tracking it, respecting its power—but right now, it's just another obstacle between me and Dakota. Between me and what I should have said weeks ago.
My GPS announces that I'm fifteen minutes from the ice rink. Fifteen minutes from potentially the biggest moment of my life. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. Three days ago, I was holed up in my office in Norman, tracking this hurricane's every move, watching with professional detachment as it barreled toward the South Carolina coast. Toward him.
Then something changed—in the hurricane's path and in me. When the storm made that unexpected eastern turn, sparing Charleston and the surrounding areas from its worst, I felt a relief that went beyond professional satisfaction. It was personal. It was about Dakota's house in Pawley's Island, about Love Beach where we'd walked that one perfect night, about the ice rink where he was probably finishing his game right now. The places that had become more than data points on my maps.
I check the radar on my phone at a stoplight. The system is moving through, but the heaviest band is right over Charleston—right over me—dumping sheets of rain that make the world beyond my windshield a watercolor blur. Classic. The meteorologist drives through the worst of the storm to get to the man she loves. There's probably a weather joke in there somewhere.
Love. The word still catches in my throat. Is that what this is? This ache that's been hollowing me out since our fight three weeks ago? Since I told him his lifestyle was too unpredictable, too chaotic for someone like me who lives by data and forecasts? Since I flew back to Oklahoma telling myself it was for the best?
The arena parking lot comes into view, a vast expanse of asphalt shimmering with puddles under the floodlights. I pull into a spot near the players' exit, the same door I've watched Dakota emerge from after games when I visited before. Before everything imploded.
My phone pings with a score update. Final: Charleston Renegades 4, Atlanta Wolves 2. Dakota scored the game-winning goal. A smile breaks across my face despite the nerves rioting in my stomach. That's my—no, not mine. Not yet. Maybe not ever if I'm too late.
I check my appearance in the rearview mirror. My curly auburn hair, usually tamed into submission, has begun to frizz in the humidity. My green eyes—the ones Dakota called "hurricane eyes" because they "swirl like storm systems"—are wide with anticipation and fear. I look exactly like what I am: a woman who's driven twelve hours straight through rain and uncertainty because staying away hurt worse than risking rejection.
The clock on my dashboard reads 10:17 PM. Players should be emerging soon. I grab my raincoat from the passenger seat, the practical, waterproof one Dakota once teased me about ("Does it come with a built-in barometer, Miss Green Eyes?"). The memory squeezes my heart as I pull it on and step out into the downpour.
The rain is immediate and overwhelming, soaking my jeans within seconds. I make a dash for the covered area near the players' exit, but I'm already drenched by the time I reach it. Water runs down my face, and I push my wet hair back, wondering if I've made a catastrophic error in judgment. Dakota "Lucky" Miles, Charleston's resident heartbreaker, probably moved on weeks ago. Probably didn't give me a second thought after I left.
The door to the players' exit suddenly bursts open. I straighten, heart pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape. But it's just a couple of players I don't recognize, heading for their cars with equipment bags slung over their shoulders. They nod at me politely, probably assuming I'm someone's girlfriend waiting in the rain. If only.
I check my phone again, scrolling through the post-game updates. According to social media, the team is celebrating their third straight win. Maybe Dakota's not even coming out this way. Maybe he's already—
The door flies open again, this time with such force it bangs against the wall. And there he is—Dakota Miles in rumpled street clothes, his damp brown hair pushed back from his forehead, a duffel bag clutched in one hand and his phone in the other. He's moving fast, head down against the rain, not seeing me as he strides purposefully toward the parking lot.
I step forward, my mouth opening to call his name, but the words dissolve as he plows directly into me. His solid chest collides with mine, sending me staggering backward. His quick reflexes save me from falling—one strong arm snaking around my waist, steadying me against him.
"Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't—" He starts apologizing before he even looks at who he's hit. When his hazel eyes lock onto mine, the recognition hits him like a physical blow. "Harmony?"
My name on his lips sends a current through me more powerful than the lightning that flashes overhead. "Dakota."
We're frozen like that, him half-holding me in the rain, water streaming down our faces. His expression cycles rapidly through shock, confusion, and something else I can't quite read.
"What are you—how did you—" He stammers, then shakes his head as if to clear it. "Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"
"I'm fine." My voice sounds strange to my own ears, breathless. "I was waiting for you."
His arm is still around me, his fingers pressing into the small of my back. I can feel the heat of him even through my wet raincoat. He doesn't move away.
"I was just heading to the airport," he says, his eyes never leaving my face. "I was going to fly to Oklahoma. To you."
The words hit me like another collision. "You were coming to find me?"
A crack of thunder punctuates the moment, making me jump slightly. His arm tightens around me reflexively.
"I couldn't do it anymore, Harmony. I couldn't pretend that I was okay with how we left things. With letting you go." His voice drops lower, nearly drowned by the hammering rain. "I've been a mess. Ask anyone on the team. Ask Kaleb—he told me I was playing like someone stole my soul."
I swallow hard, blinking raindrops from my lashes. "I've been a mess too."
A small, hopeful smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I place my palm against his chest, feeling his heart race under my fingers. "That's why I'm here. I was tracking the hurricane, watching it head straight for Charleston, for you, and all I could think was—"
"I'm sorry," he blurts out, cutting me off.
At the same moment, I say, "I was wrong."
We both stop, startled by the simultaneous confessions. A laugh bubbles up from my chest, surprising me with its lightness.
"You go first," I offer.
Dakota shakes his head, raindrops flying from his hair. "No, you. Please."
I take a deep breath. This is it. The moment I drove through three states and a tropical storm system for. "I was wrong, Dakota. About everything. I told myself that your life was too unpredictable for me, that someone who lives for routine and data couldn't possibly fit with someone who thrives on spontaneity and—"
"And sleeping with half of Charleston?" His voice is self-deprecating, but there's a vulnerability in his eyes that makes my heart ache.
"Your past doesn't scare me," I say firmly. "What scared me was how much I felt for you after such a short time. It was like... like a weather system I couldn't predict. And instead of embracing the unknown, I ran from it. Back to my safe, controllable life in Oklahoma."
"And how's that working out for you?" There's no mockery in his question, just genuine curiosity.
"Terrible." I can't help but laugh at the understatement. "I miss you. I miss your stupid hockey superstitions and the way you sing in the shower and how you ask me endless questions about barometric pressure just to watch me get excited about weather patterns."
His smile grows, warming me from the inside despite the cold rain. "I love how excited you get about weather patterns."
"My point is," I continue, determined to get it all out, "I don't want safe and predictable if it means not having you. I'd rather have chaotic and messy and real."
For a long moment, Dakota just stares at me, rainwater dripping from his eyelashes. Then he lifts his free hand to my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
"My turn," he says softly. "I'm sorry I let you go. I'm sorry I didn't fight harder. When you told me you needed stability, someone who wouldn't be on the road half the year with a different woman in every city—"
"I never said that," I protest.
"You implied it," he counters, but there's no heat in his words. "And maybe you were right to worry. My track record isn't exactly stellar. But Harmony, what you don't understand is that everything changed when I met you."
Lightning splits the sky, illuminating his face in stark relief. In that flash, I see every emotion written there—fear, hope, and something that looks remarkably like love.
"Nothing felt the same after you," he continues. "The parties, the games, even the wins—they all felt hollow. I kept looking for you in the stands. I kept reaching for my phone to text you about something stupid that happened at practice. I kept waking up expecting to see your curly hair on the pillow next to me."
My throat tightens. "Dakota—"
"I was flying to Oklahoma to tell you that you were right about me needing to grow up, about needing to be worthy of someone like you. But you were wrong about one thing—I've never been more stable, more centered, more focused than when I'm with you. You're not my opposite, Harmony. You're my balance."
The rain seems to soften around us, or maybe that's just the rushing in my ears as blood pounds through my veins. I reach up, threading my fingers through his wet hair, pulling his face closer to mine.
"For a guy who blocks pucks for a living, you have quite a way with words," I whisper.
He grins, that heart-stopping Dakota Miles smile that first weakened my knees months ago when Kaleb introduced us at a team charity event. "Only when they matter. Only with you."
And then he's closing the distance between us, his mouth finding mine with an urgency that steals my breath. His lips are warm despite the cold rain, his body solid and real against mine. I melt into him, kissing him back with all the longing and relief and yes, love, that's been building inside me during our weeks apart.
Lightning flashes again, closer this time, thunder following almost immediately. The storm surrounds us, wild and electric, a perfect mirror to what's happening in my chest as Dakota deepens the kiss, his hand sliding into my wet hair, cradling my head like I'm something precious.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Dakota presses his forehead against mine, his eyes closed.
"So," he says, his voice rough. "Does this mean you're staying?"
The question holds so much more than those simple words. It's asking about tomorrow, and next week, and the road trips, and the distance. It's asking if I'm all in.
I think about the predictable life waiting for me back in Oklahoma. The empty apartment. The colleagues who respect me but don't really know me. The safety of a life lived according to forecasts and probabilities.
Then I look at Dakota—beautiful, complicated Dakota—standing in the rain, looking at me like I'm a miracle he never expected.
"Yes," I say, certainty settling over me like calm after a storm. "I'm staying."
His smile could power the entire eastern seaboard. "Good," he says, then glances up at the still-pouring rain. "Because I think the universe approves of this reunion. Your favorite thing and my good luck charm, all at once."
I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in weeks. "Rain is not my favorite thing."
"Liar." He kisses me again, briefly but with promise. "You love it. You have a whole speech about how rain is the great connector of the water cycle."
The fact that he remembers this random detail from one of my weather tangents makes my heart swell three sizes. "Maybe I do love it. Especially right now."
Dakota releases me just long enough to pick up the duffel bag he dropped when we collided. Then his arm is back around me, pulling me tight against his side as we make a dash through the downpour toward his car.
"By the way," he calls over the rain. "We won tonight!"
"I know!" I shout back. "Game-winning goal!"
He looks surprised and pleased. "You were following the game?"
"I follow all your games," I admit. "Even when I was pretending I was over you."
His laughter rings out, joyful and free, as another flash of lightning illuminates us. In that split-second of brightness, with rain soaking us to the skin and Dakota's arm firm around my waist, I understand something I've missed in all my careful predictions and analyses.
Some forces of nature can't be forecast. They can only be experienced, embraced, surrendered to. The storm above us. The man beside me. The love I've been running from and toward all at once.
I'm done running. I'm finally home.