The sky cracks open like a water balloon, and we're sprinting across the parking lot, Harmony's hand clutched in mine. Rain pelts us like tiny bullets, soaking through my thin t-shirt in seconds. Her green eyes flash with each lightning strike as she fumbles for her keys, her practical meteorologist brain probably calculating how many feet we are from being human lightning rods. I've never seen anything sexier than Harmony Fucking Baker leading me through a storm.
"This way!" she shouts over a thunderclap that rattles my bones.
We'd only meant to grab coffee at Caffeine Beach before heading back to my place, but Mother Nature had other plans. The sky darkened faster than Asher's mood when someone touches his guitar, and now we're caught in what Harmony would call a "severe thunderstorm event" and what I call a "we're-gonna-drown-in-the-parking-lot situation."
"Got it!" She clicks her key fob, and her Subaru's lights flash like a beacon.
We crash into her car, slamming the doors against the howling wind. Water streams down our faces, our clothes plastered to our skin. Harmony's auburn curls have escaped her usual practical ponytail, wild tendrils framing her face. She pushes her hair back, breathing hard, droplets sliding down her neck and disappearing beneath her soaked blouse.
"Well," she says, her voice still clipped with adrenaline, "that escalated quickly."
"You didn't see this coming, Miss Meteorologist?" I tease, wiping rain from my eyes.
"Isolated cell development." She shakes her head, sending water droplets flying. "Unpredictable, just like you, Miles."
The car windows fog almost instantly from our body heat and breath. Outside, the world has turned into sheets of water, the parking lot barely visible. The drumming on the roof is deafening.
"We're soaked," she says, looking down at herself. Her white blouse has gone completely transparent, clinging to the simple black bra underneath. My mouth goes dry despite the humidity.
"We should–" I start.
"Take our clothes off," she finishes, so matter-of-factly I almost laugh. "Before we catch cold."
My eyebrows shoot up. "Is that your professional weather advice?"
"Actually, yes." She meets my eyes, a challenge there. "Body temperature regulation is serious business, Dakota."
The way she says my name, all proper and scientific, sends heat straight to my groin. I've been with plenty of women – hell, that's basically my brand in the league – but something about Harmony Baker makes me feel like a teenager again, excited and nervous all at once.
"Back seat?" I suggest, nodding to the cramped front of her practical car.
She nods, and we awkwardly maneuver ourselves over the console. Her ass brushes against my face, and I resist the urge to bite it. Barely.
In the back seat, we face each other, breathing hard. Rain hammers the roof. Lightning flashes, illuminating her face in stop-motion bursts. Her fingers reach for the buttons of her blouse.
"Let me," I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
Her hands drop, and she watches me, those green eyes steady even as her chest rises and falls rapidly. I work each button slowly, revealing inch after inch of skin. When I push the fabric from her shoulders, she shivers.
"Cold?" I ask.
"Not exactly."
I cup her face, my thumb tracing her bottom lip. "I should warn you. I'm very serious about preventing hypothermia."
A smile plays at her lips. "I'm counting on your expertise."
My shirt comes off next, peeled away like a second skin. Her hands are on me immediately, those scientific fingers mapping the contours of my chest, my abs, my shoulders. I've been admired by women before – occupational hazard of being a professional athlete – but Harmony touches me like she's cataloging every muscle, every scar, memorizing me.
"Your turn," I murmur, reaching behind her to unhook her bra.
It falls away, and I'm treated to the sight of her perfect breasts, small and firm with dusky pink nipples hardened from cold or arousal or both. I bend to take one in my mouth, and she gasps, her hands clutching my hair.
"Dakota," she breathes, my name a prayer on her lips.
We wrestle with the rest of our clothes in the confined space, elbows knocking against windows, knees bumping the seats. It should be awkward – it is awkward – but we're laughing between kisses, cursing under our breath. I nearly knee her in the stomach trying to get my jeans off, and she snorts with laughter before helping me. Her practical pants come off easier, revealing simple cotton underwear that somehow turns me on more than any lace or satin ever has.
"Wait," she says when we're both down to our underwear. She reaches for her purse in the front seat, fishing out a condom. Always prepared, my meteorologist.
"Thank fuck," I breathe. "Or should I say, now we can fuck."
She rolls her eyes but smiles. "Such a poet, Miles."
I hook my fingers in her underwear, dragging them down her legs. She does the same to my boxers, her eyes widening slightly at what she unveils. Yeah, I've heard the joke a thousand times – Dakota "Lucky" Miles is lucky in more ways than one.
But when Harmony looks at me, I don't feel like the team's fuck boy. I feel seen in a way I never have before.
The car windows are completely fogged now, creating our own private world as the storm rages outside. I pull her onto my lap, her knees on either side of my thighs. The position puts us face-to-face, her eyes level with mine.
"You sure about this?" I ask, needing to hear it.
"I've never been more sure of anything," she says, and then she's sinking down onto me, taking me inside her inch by excruciating inch.
We both gasp as she bottoms out. Her forehead falls against mine, our breath mingling. For a moment, we just stay like that, connected, adjusting. Then she begins to move.
I've had sex in plenty of awkward places – locker room showers, equipment closets, even once in the penalty box after hours – but nothing has ever felt like this. The storm outside matches the one building inside me as Harmony rides me, her hands braced on my shoulders, her curls wild around her face. I grip her hips, guiding her movements, meeting her thrust for thrust.
"Fuck, Harm," I groan. "You feel amazing."
She makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a laugh. "Is that – ah – your scientific assessment?"
Even during sex, she's a smartass. I love it. I love her.
The thought hits me like a body check, knocking the wind out of me. But I don't have time to panic because Harmony is picking up pace, her breathing becoming erratic, her eyes losing focus.
"Dakota," she gasps. "I'm close."
I slip a hand between us, finding her center, circling with my thumb. Her head falls back, exposing the elegant line of her throat, and I can't resist leaning forward to taste her pulse point.
"Come for me," I murmur against her skin. "Let go, Harm."
She shatters around me, her inner muscles clenching, her body trembling. The sight of her coming undone pushes me over the edge, and I follow her into oblivion, holding her tight against me as pleasure crashes through my body.
"I love you," she says, the words tumbling out as she comes down from her high.
"I love you," I say at the exact same moment.
We freeze, staring at each other in shock. Then we both start laughing, the kind of giddy, breathless laughter that comes after great sex and unexpected confessions.
"Did we just–" she starts.
"Say I love you during sex?" I finish. "Yeah, we did. Very original of us."
She smacks my chest lightly, but she's smiling. "Did you mean it?"
The vulnerable question sobers me. I cup her face, making sure she's looking directly into my eyes. "Every word. I love you, Harmony Baker. Even though you're a know-it-all with a weather fetish who corrects my grammar."
"I love you too," she says softly. "Even though you're a cocky jock with the emotional maturity of a teaspoon who uses 'ladies' as a greeting."
"Ouch," I laugh. "But fair."
We disentangle ourselves, the awkwardness returning now that the passion has ebbed. Harmony grabs tissues from somewhere – again, always prepared – and we clean up as best we can. The storm has lessened slightly, though rain still drums steadily on the roof.
We sit side by side now, naked and slightly damp, her head on my shoulder. It's the most vulnerable I've felt with anyone, and it has nothing to do with being naked. It has everything to do with the words we just exchanged.
"So," she says after a while, her voice small against my skin. "I guess we should talk about what this means."
"Us being in love? Yeah, probably a good idea."
She shifts to look at me. "I got a job offer. From the National Hurricane Center in Miami."
My heart does a weird stutter-step. "Miami? That's... not Charleston."
"No," she agrees. "It's not."
I let this sink in. Harmony in Miami. Me in Charleston. Hundreds of miles between us. My first instinct is fear, followed quickly by the urge to ask her not to go. To stay here, with me. The Dakota Miles of old – hell, the Dakota Miles of a month ago – would have done exactly that.
But I look at her face, those green eyes that light up when she talks about weather patterns, that brilliant mind that can predict the path of a storm before it forms, and I know I can't ask her to dim her light for me.
"Tell me about it," I say instead. "The job."
Her eyes widen slightly, like she's surprised I didn't immediately try to talk her out of it. Then she straightens, excitement creeping into her voice.
"It's incredible, Dakota. I'd be working with the best in the field, developing new models for hurricane prediction. The kind of work that could literally save lives." Her hands move animatedly as she speaks. "It's everything I've worked toward."
"When do they need an answer?"
"By the end of the month." She bites her lip. "I haven't said yes because... well, because of you. Because of us."
I take her hand, running my thumb over her knuckles. "Do you want the job?"
"Yes," she admits. "But I want you too."
I let out a slow breath. "So take the job."
"But–"
"No buts." I squeeze her hand. "Harmony, I've watched you geek out over weather maps and storm patterns. I've seen how passionate you are about your work. I would never forgive myself if I was the reason you passed up your dream job."
She searches my face. "What about us?"
"We'll make it work. Miami's what, an hour flight from Charleston? I have days off. You'll have weekends. There's FaceTime and texting and all that shit." I shrug like it's simple, even though the thought of not seeing her every day makes my chest ache. "The season only lasts part of the year anyway."
"Long-distance relationships are statistically challenging," she says, ever the analyst.
"Good thing we're not statistics." I pull her closer. "Look, I'm not saying it'll be easy. But I love you, and unless I'm reading this all wrong, you love me too. That's worth fighting for, isn't it?"
She nods slowly. "It is. But I still have concerns. You're used to having women available whenever you want. I know your reputation, Dakota."
The words sting, but only because they contain a kernel of truth. "That was before you. I haven't been with anyone else since our first date."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously? That's like... two months of monogamy."
"Don't sound so shocked," I grumble. "I'm capable of keeping it in my pants when it matters."
"And I matter?" Her voice is teasing, but I hear the genuine question underneath.
"More than anything," I say honestly. "More than hockey. More than my carefully cultivated reputation as a fuck boy."
She laughs at that, the sound brightening the car's interior more than any lightning flash. Outside, I notice the rain has eased to a gentle patter.
"So we're doing this?" she asks. "Long-distance, I mean."
"We're doing this," I confirm. "You'll take that badass hurricane job, and I'll be your very proud, very supportive boyfriend who flies down to Miami every chance he gets. And in the off-season, maybe I can be in Miami more permanently."
Her eyes widen. "You'd do that?"
I shrug. "I can train anywhere. And Florida has beaches too." I run a finger down her bare arm. "Plus, hurricane season and hockey season don't exactly overlap."
She smiles, a slow, beautiful smile that makes me want to kiss her again. So I do.
"We'll need a schedule," she says when we part. "Calendar invites for visits. FaceTime dates. Maybe a shared document for planning."
I laugh against her lips. "Of course that's your solution. Spreadsheets and schedules."
"Organization is sexy," she insists.
"You're sexy," I counter, trailing kisses down her neck.
She hums, tilting her head to give me better access. "The storm's passing," she murmurs.
I look up to see that she's right. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, and patches of blue are appearing in the sky.
"Perfect timing," I say. "Now we can head back to my place and celebrate your new job properly. In a bed, with room to move."
"Is that so?" She arches an eyebrow. "What about your roommates?"
"They're all at Asher's charity thing tonight. We'll have the place to ourselves." I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively. "I can be very loud when I'm celebrating."
She laughs, pushing me playfully. "You're incorrigible."
"But you love me."
Her expression softens. "I do. God help me, but I do."
We gather our damp clothes, getting dressed awkwardly in the confined space. Harmony's hair is a riot of curls now, her makeup smudged, her clothes wrinkled. She's never looked more beautiful.
As she climbs back into the driver's seat, I catch her hand. "Hey, Harm?"
She turns, looking at me questioningly.
"I'm really proud of you. For the job offer, for all of it. You're amazing."
The smile she gives me is like sunshine after the storm – bright, warm, and full of promise. "We're going to make this work," she says, and it's not a question.
"Damn right we are," I agree, settling into the passenger seat. "Hurricane season won't know what hit it."
She groans at my terrible joke, but she's smiling as she starts the car. As we pull out of the parking lot, the clouds part further, letting sunshine stream through. It feels like a sign, cheesy as that sounds. The storm has passed, and we've weathered it together.
Whatever comes next, we'll face it the same way.