Chapter Text

i. the eye of the storm

The cellar was cold and dusty. Aelin was 6 years old, curled up under her older cousin’s arm. Outside, the wind howled and shrieked. She could hear the clatter of the window shutters slamming and debris crashing into walls.

Her mother hummed a tune over the noise as she braided Aelin’s hair with ribbons.

It wasn’t her first tornado, she remembers that much. But it wasn’t often that they had to retreat to the safety of the cellar. She distinctly recalls the taste of dread, cold and slimy, in the back of her throat.

Evalin noticed. Her music and the physical comfort of her fingers deftly braiding were both attempts at distraction, although Aelin didn’t recognize that as a child. Aedion, albeit only 5 years older than her, also noticed. He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Like riding a horse, Ae. You wanna tell me about the horses.”

Her mind was caught up in the screaming wind, but she dredged up an image of the horses out in the barn. “I usually ride Sky,” she said, referring to the smaller pale colored horse that her father had taught her to ride on. “But papa says I can ride Fireheart when I’m older,” she finished, thinking of the feisty horse. Rhoe often affectionately called Aelin fireheart , claiming both girls had the same reckless spirit. Fireheart was a warm tawny color and under the setting sun, her mane was set alight like rippling flames. 

The thought warmed her heart for a bit, before reminding her of the itchy feeling underneath her skin. Her father was not with them. Mama didn’t seem worried, insisting that he’d be fine and home soon enough. Aelin couldn’t help the fear, though. 

She doesn’t remember waiting for her father. Just remembers the moment when the door opened. The air outside was still, but there was wind screaming in her ears as she bolted down the hall into her father’s waiting arms.

“Hey there, fireheart. What’s got you in a hurry?” he laughed, the sound rumbling in his chest.

“Missed you, papa,” she mumbled into his shirt. 

“Come on, princess. No need to worry about a measly tornado. Besides, if I can handle your mother, I can handle any storm.” He sends a wink to Evalin, watching from the end of the hallway in exasperation.

“Get in here, Galathynius, and we’ll see what you can handle.”

Aelin giggled as he carried her down the hall and pressed a peck to Evalin’s lips. She followed it up with the mandatory gross, papa. This earned her a kiss on her forehead, before she was placed down gently and told to scamper off.

She thinks about this memory with fondness. She learned soon after that storms take many forms, like the illness that unexpectedly took her mother 3 years later. “There’s always an eye in the storm where everything is calmest,” Rhoe said, pulling her and Aedion aside to a quiet room during the funeral. “You just gotta hold on till then.”

“Like riding a horse,” Aelin said solemnly. Aedion snorted, the amused sound a rarity in those grim days.

“Only you, cuz,” he shook his head. She stuck her tongue out at him, and then they were off bickering.

It’s not just the reminder of her parents, but what that tornado signified: a lifelong obsession. Aelin had always loved science. She pestered the vets to tell her facts when they visited, asked her mother about psychology, found books on animals and oceans and anything else she could get her hands on. The tornado that day raised a new question: how much could she learn about these storms? The answer: a lot. Hold on to your hats. 

“Can you believe it?” Sam asks, a hand leaning out the window of the truck. 

She shakes her head with a wide grin. Tornado chasing is instinctive, in a sense. The way the temperature changes, the feel of humidity in the air. It’s like dancing, like riding a horse, but adrenaline dialed up to 100. Her father jokes that she could have been a vet and given him less gray hairs, but they all know she’s his fireheart. It wouldn’t be her without a wild streak a mile wild. 

“Hey losers, wake up,” she says, tossing an empty water bottle at Ansel’s head. The redhead jolts awake with a muttered curse. Beside her, Ilias peeks his eyes open and promptly shuts them. 

“Too early for this shit,” he says. 

A huff sounds from the back of the truck. “I don’t think tornados operate under any time limitations,” a cool voice says. Nehemia peeks her head over the back seat, her neon blue braids dangling in Ilias’ face while he bats it away. 

“Damn, Mia,” he mutters, finally pulling himself upright. He clicks his walkie and listens to the crunch of static. “How’s Toto hanging?”

“Wind speeds picking up,” Nehemia chirps, her fingers clicking on the keys of her laptop.

Over the walkie, a voice chimes, “Toto’s hanging just fine.” 

“You having fun all by your lonesome?” Ansel croons.

“Fuck off, Annie. You’re the one who ditched me for pretty boy over there,” Mikhail filters over the device.

“Quit flirting,” Mia scolds.

Aelin snorts, exchanging a glance with Sam. He sends her a wink. Mia, as the resident aromantic cryptid with a penchant for D&D and fencing (don’t ask), has a lot of fun being stuck with the rest of them.

“Would you rather I serenade you? Country roads…” he begins, only to be cut off by a chorus of no’s . 

“Right, hanging up. Message with updates,” Ilias says and turns the walkie off with a click.

They pull over at an intersection, the road devoid of traffic. Aelin hops out the side of the truck to watch Toto pull up, hitching their equipment. Mikhail waves from the driver's seat. She helps him set up, all too aware of the worsening weather around them. 

“About 10 miles east, I’m thinking,” Mia says over the walkie.

She glances that way, noting the darkening storm clouds and the way the leaves eddy around them. There’s a pattern there, one that she’d learned to listen to. But storms are creatures of their own, and don’t always adhere to their own rules.

Mikhail and her finish setting up their data collection equipment. Finely tuned to record wind speeds, air moisture, temperature, and a host of data that they could use to develop computational models of tornados. To simulate and predict them, figure out what makes them tick, and maybe even diffuse them. 

The difficult part is getting in the perfect location to capture said tornado. 

“Level 2, y’all. Looking strong,” Ansel calls from the truck. 

“Alright, we’re all good. You riding with me?” Mikhail asks.

She nods, eager to help him get the positioning right. First she walks back up to Sam and places a quick peck on his lips. He grins at her and draws her in for a deeper kiss. “Have fun, darlin’.”

“I’ll have a blast. Don’t be too bored without me,” she crows.

The others boo at her as they wave goodbye.  

Aelin hops into the passenger seat next to Mik, who is blasting his country songs. They watch Sam drive off ahead of them. They follow behind, since Mia would be tracking the storm and guiding them towards it. 

As they move Northeast, the truck begins swaying more in the gales. She leans her head out the window, hair battering in the wind, eyes fixed on the cloud wall. “Let’s go right, Mikhail,” she says.

“You got it, boss,” he turns as they reach a small road, cutting through a field. The grass twists and writhes around them, flattening to the ground as the wind picks up. She sees Sam continue driving straight, aiming to land behind the tornado. Her and Mihail head it straight-on. 

In the distance, she finally sees the funnel shape. The spiral updraft circling and carrying the dust shroud that gives the tornados their appearance. As she lays eyes on it, though, the wind still crescendoing around her, she feels a kernel of dread. 

Over her walkie, she says, “Mia, what’s happening? That’s no level 2.”

“Um,” a thread of panic in Mia’s voice. “Level 3, and counting. Wind speeds at 143,” she says. 

Ansel cuts in. “We’re good on our end.”

“So are we,” Mikhail says, sending her a questioning glance. “Right, Ace?”

“I don’t know about this,” Mia says. “We haven’t tried getting data for anything above a level 2. And the winds are still going up.”

While she listens, she is still in the storm itself. Watching the funnel get bigger, picking up debris. “Someone call in the storm,” she says numbly. “If wind speeds stay where they are, we’ll make an attempt. Otherwise, we’ll avoid it. Keep your distance, Mik.”

There’s a clamor of voices over her walkie, but Aelin is suddenly 6 in a cellar. She shakes out of it. She’s chasing dozens of tornadoes, several while at college with this exact group. They know what they're doing.

Still, tornados are erratic, and she senses its direction turning a split second before it veers sharply. The funnel at the base only kicks up more clouds of dust. She can’t see Sam’s truck in the, but she has a sinking feeling that they’re in its line now.

“Left, Mik,” she shouts over the howling wind.

He turns sharply, Toto rattling behind them. 

She is still half out the window, hair whipping in the wind. The tornado is tossing debris around, scrap metal and cardboard and chunks of wood. Off to the side of the funnel, she sees Sam’s truck skid and lose control. 

It topples, and her scream gets caught in the wind. Mikhail is shouting, but his music is 

still blasting and she can’t hear anything over the sharp whistle of the storm. It careens into ears, till they vibrate with it. 

He swerves in the wind. Aelin climbs back into her seat and points Mikhail right. They skid to a stop once they’re out the tornado’s direct path. It seems to be heading southwest, still looming ahead of them. 

In an instant, Mikhail is out of the car. She rushes out behind him, calling out. “Where are you going, Mik?” 

His baseball hat flies off in the wind, but he struggles against the draft. She casts a glance at Toto, but ends up chasing him through the grassy fields. Towards Sam’s truck. Her heart hammers in her chest. 

Though there’s a sheen of dust in the air, she sees shattered glass scattering the ground. And splotches of red. They’re all okay, they have to be. This isn’t their first tornado, nor their last. Mikhail reaches the truck first, a hand outstretched. It’s completely overturned, likely having rolled over once it landed on its side. 

Her heart is in her throat, pulsing and blocking her breath. 

He grabs a pale hand. Annie army-crawls out, landing in his arms with a sob. Aelin rushes towards her, pulling the redhead into her arms and down into a crouch so that they can use the vehicle as cover from the debris. 

Ilias crawls out from the backseat after Ansel, joining them in a crouch. He is cradling his arm awkwardly, but appears otherwise fine. 

Aelin’s vision dims as she presses her face to the soil besides Mik’s and calls for Sam. “Sam? Can you hear us?”

A pause, then a croak. “Hey, hun.”

Relief shoots her, followed by a swift wave of dread. “You okay?”

Another pause, and her stomach sinks. She tells Ilias and Ansel to wait where they are, and they nod hunkering down. She meets Mik’s gaze. “Where’s Mia?” His jaw tightens as he scans the fields. 

“She was in the back. Might have been thrown,” he shouts. “I’ll get her.”

She bites her lip. “Alright.” Crouching down, she sends Sam a quick, “I love you,” then turns back to scan the fields. 

As the tornado curves and barrels further down the field, a blue handkerchief flies past them. Mikhail bolts towards it, Ansel following after him. Meanwhile, Aelin moves to lean by the shattered driver’s seat window. Sam’s body is half there, his upper body sprawled across the dash. His seatbelt is torn and she focuses on the frayed thread before realizing it was a glass shard that pierced it. A glass shard that is embedded into the side of his ribs.

Later, when she remembers this moment, she’ll remember her father talking about the eye of the storm. Because it felt, for a moment, like all the winds had disappeared. No dust shroud, no noise. Just Sam, bruised and bleeding. 

She lays flat on her stomach, crawling towards him, Glass shards scrape her back and arms, but she ignores the digging and Sam’s muttered protests. Her hands fumble for his face, over his too-cold cheeks and the warmth of spilling blood dripping down his chin. 

Once the winds dissipate entirely, the tornado having moved past Toto and diminished into the horizon, Ansel stumbles up to her. Ilias follows slowly behind and the three of them wait in silence till sirens shatter the air.

In the end, it's too late. 

While they work on removing Sam’s body, Aelin finds where Mikhail was crouched over Mia. A bloody wound on her head and no pulse. Nehemia never wakes up. Died on impact. He clutches a blue hankerchief. 

And by the same time tomorrow, Sam is gone too. 

Just hold on till the storms over. But what is there to hold on to?

Chapter Text

ii. amidst fields of wheat

Rowan glances out over the plain. The sun streams down heavily, setting the seas of grain awash with a golden color. The sky above is a rich blue, the contrast between the two striking. A breeze rustles the wheat and dances across his skin. 

He’s here every day, but he doesn’t get tired of it. On the contrary, it’s one of the only things that brings him some semblance of peace. In a different world, this would have been a life he shared with someone else. Sometimes he imagines watching his kids grow up here. And when he stands out here, he can just imagine a familiar figure next to him. 

By the time he returns to the farmhouse, it’s evening. The sky has darkened to deep slate gray, brushed over with purple at the horizon. Rowan casts a backwards glance and breathes deep, before stepping through the red double doors. 

Immediately, his gaze lands on Lorcan, who scowls as he sits at the table with a bottle of bourbon. “Took you long enough,” he grumbles.

“No one told you to stay, Salvaterre,” Fen says, sprawling across Rowan’s couch. Lyria’s couch , he reminds himself, because she’d been the one to pick out the pale green, saying it complements the interior walls. 

At his old place, he’d seen her everywhere. Every wall, every picture frame, every stair. So he’d moved here, a bit further from his friends, aiming for isolation. It didn’t stop them from showing up and drinking his good liquor every goddamn weekend though. 

“Yeah, Salvaterre,” Rowan says, “no one told you to stay.”

“Bastard,” Lorcan says. 

Fen snorts. “No, that’s you.” Earning him a dark scowl. “Lighten up, Lor.”

Rowan takes a seat across from Lorcan at the round oak table. He’d made it himself, with help from Vaughan who was better at woodworking than him, so each crevice and ridge was familiar to him. He knew that their initials were carved at the very top of leg, where he trailed his finger. 

He swipes the bottle from Lorcan and drinks. 

“How’s it going?” he manages to ask.

Lorcan shrugs. “Same old at the garage. Nothing exciting. I’m fixing your tractor, that shit should have been in the shop months ago.”

Rowan nods, not bothering to snipe back when he knows it's true.

Fen, much more enthusiastic than Lorcan, begins rambling about his week. “You wouldn’t believe who I ran into? Remelle. So crazy. She was in town, apparently, for work, which I think is a bold faced lie,” he says.

Lorcan rolls his eyes. “She just came to harass us about you.”

“But Essar was there too,” he continues, sending Lorcan a pointed glance. “Why they’re still friends is beyond me.”

“They work together,” Lorcan says. “Don’t think Essar has much of a choice, but they’re certainly not friends.”

Rowan thinks about the two women, such opposite both visually and internally. Essar is the warmth to Remelle’s icy personality, the dark slanted features to Remelle’s light fair ones. They’d all been friends once. Rowan had met the group when he moved states to Oklahoma, but was personally relieved when Remelle left. 

His fling with her had been…foolish. He’d been hurting in the months after Lyria’s death, and Remelle, in Fen’s words, had ‘swooped in like a vulture.’ His friends had been stark in their vitriol against her. They disliked her even before that, though, so no one was surprised by her decisions. 

Fen continues his story, including a meltdown on-brand for Remelle.

Lorcan only chimes in with key insults. 

“Oh, also,” Fen adds, “wait for this…I think Con’s dating someone. But he won’t tell me who. I just wanna have a chat with them.”

“A friendly interrogation, he means,” says Lorcan. “You’re not that scary, Moonbeam. Leave the shovel-talk to someone else.”

“I can be scary!” Fen insists. “And I just want to talk. It’s like he thinks I’ll scare them away,” he adds, a dramatized pout on his lips.

Rowan and Lorcan exchange a glance. “What was that girl’s name?” Rowan asks.

“The redhead?” Lorcan says. “Left after one dinner with us, because Fen started talking about…”

“Shut up! I did not scare her away.”

Rowan smirks while Fen and Lorcan dissolve into another round of bickering. 

For the day, Rowan lets his friends distract him. He’d never admit it, but it’s nice to see them. Their insistence on visiting hadn’t waned in those early days after his fiancee’s death, where he’d been volatile in his grief. Nor when he’d retreated into silence. 6 years later, he had grown accustomed to the feeling. Him and his loss shared a space in the living room on the green couch.

Despite his developing stability, the visits had never stopped. Every weekend, at least one of them arrived like clockwork. Last week, it had been Connal with his new novel’s manuscript asking for feedback. The week before, Vaughan with his 3 year old daughter and a stack of crayons. She loved drawing horses, so sometimes they’d go out and brush the horse’s manes together.

And Rowan would try not to think about the lilies when he saw her. 

So Rowan enjoys his time in the present. With the friends that were too good to leave his sorry ass behind in the past. And when they leave, he resigns himself to another week alone, stuck with her memory.  

“You busy?” she asks.

He says yes, but still turns to face her. He drops his dirt encrusted gloves on the soil and pulls her in by the waist. “Something the matter?”

Lyria shakes her head, dark brown braid swinging. There are flowers woven into it, and he gently drags a finger along the petals of a carnation. 

“This is pretty,” he murmurs.

“Oh? The flowers?” she says teasingly. 

He grins and presses a kiss to her cheek, as she hums. 

“Are you going somewhere?” he asks, noting the floral sundress and the picnic basket. He traces his hands over the flat of her stomach, and she smiles knowingly. 

“I thought we’d go on a little trip up the road,” she says. Then she shakes her basket at him. 

“Give me twenty minutes,” he says, nudging her towards the barn. “Then we can take a lunch break.”

She nods and waltzes away, feet moving to their own rhythm. 

He places his gloves back on and finishes his work. 

When he reaches his car, he finds Lyria with the basket tucked away in the backseat. Despite the warmth of spring in the air, she has a thin blanket wrapped around her shoulders. He pulls her close, breathing in the familiar perfume. 

“Ready to go?” she asks.

“Ready, sorry to keep you waiting.”

She rolls her eyes as she climbs into the passenger seat. He gets in opposite of her, one hand settling on the wheel and the other over her hand. The cool metal of her ring warms under his palm.

They set off, and she turns on the radio to some country ballads.

The moment reminds him of the day he proposed. 

They had gone on a picnic that day, too. Rowan had made her favorite meals and packed them in the fancy dishes. He’d bought flowers from her store, which he fashioned into a tall springy bouquet and a flower crown. At Lyria’s favorite spot, atop a picnic blanket, he’d pulled out the ring. She’d pulled out the ultrasound. 

He flicks his gaze over to her, as she rifles through the dash. 

She pulls out the copy of that ultrasound, crinkled around its edges. He runs his fingers over the white static plenty, outlining the bean shape. 

“This is a lucky spot for us,” Lyria says.

Rowan shrugs. “Nothin’ to do with the spot,” he drawls. “You’re lucky for me.”

She laughs, but the sound is overtaken by loud music blaring from an oncoming car. 

He frowns at the headlights, considering it’s still pretty early in the afternoon, and slows down. They’re on a quiet road, mostly a residential area. 

The oncoming car swerves, and his stomach falls. He wrenches the car to their right, just as he hears the snatches of loud music. There’s a loud crunch of metal as the driver slams into the rear end of the car, its heavy weight and fast speed sending them rolling over.

It’s too late to do anything as the car crashes, the roof crumpling underneath them. Rowan blinks the stars out of his vision, as he turns to look at Lyria. Music is still blaring behind them, accompanied by screams as people rush out of their homes. But it's all swimming in the background, muffled underneath the ringing in his ears and the blood collected in his head.

Lyria is still, head leaning against the shattered glass window. 

He tries to wake her, hands on her cheeks, her shoulders, trailing down to where blood is pooling underneath them. His vision goes gray at the edges, and he doesn’t even remember hearing sirens. Or seeing the red and white flashes of light.

By the time the paramedics have gotten them out, Rowan feels like he’s been numb for hours. Though it’s probably been 5 minutes. Trapped inside with no way to wake her up. Why wasn’t she waking up? M aybe if they’d left earlier, they would have avoided this driver…

Rowan blinks, and Lyria is gone. He is alone in the waiting room. 

This room is too small. His limbs are deadweight, spilling out of the plastic chairs. He hardly noticed the burning on the side of face, blood dripping down. He isn’t present, he doesn’t think. His mind is still trapped in a hunk of twisted metal, stuck in the belly of a truck. There is broken glass across his legs. Someone is weeping. 

He startles out of his reverie as he notices a young girl sobbing. Her father tries to console her, but Rowan’s gaze is fixed on the flowers she is holding. They are lilies, Rowan notes distantly. He’d recognize most flowers a mile away, and be able to name them too. Scientific names and all. 

He’d always thought Lily would be a pretty name for a girl. Or Ivy or Lilac, something that embodied their daughter. Rowan forces his gaze away from the girl when her startled eyes land on the bloody cut. 

Lorcan is the first to arrive. It only proves that the man intentionally ignores their messages, because he’s normally the last to respond to any call. But he’s the first one here, like he’d seen the text immediately and left immediately. 

He stumbles briefly over the threshold as he sees Rowan. Surprise, then resignation flashes across his face, before his eyebrows fall into their usual furrow. Hard to read, other than a slight hint of derision.

Lorcan kneels before Rowan, almost like the father across from them soothing his daughter. Rowan wants to resent this, but his mind is once again slipping away. Screech of tires, the feels of metal crumpling around them and absorbing their impact.

“How long have you been waiting here?” Lorcan asks, his voice hesitant. 

Rowan doesn’t respond.

Lorcan nudges his shoulder, and Rowan finally looks him in the eyes. 

“Did you get your head checked?” he asks. He seems to take Rowan’s silence as an answer, because he tells him to wait there while he leaves. Before Rowan knows it, he is being shuffled by a stern nurse into an examination room.

He sits while they shine a light in his eyes. There’s a sting while they brush antiseptic across the cut, then add butterfly stitches to it. Lorcan watches in the corner, occasionally glancing at his phone to message people.

They deliver him the news in that room. Rowan sits numbly. They say words like condolences and hemorrhage and cardiovascular failure. And all he hears is lily, ivy, lilac, rose, dahlia. Lyria’s laughing voice. What’s pretty? The flowers or me?

He only wished he’d realized how delicate his future was, petals hanging on to a quivering stem. And it’s hours later, on his knees in the midst of the fields. Screaming her name to stars that won’t answer.

Chapter Text

iii. air front collision

It’s been 4 years since she’s been to a funeral. Her boyfriend and best friend’s. She’d dressed in her favorite blue dress. She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t spoken. So the funeral invite she receives in the mail sits on the kitchen table. It festers, and she ignores the buzzing emanating from it. Like flies swarming a carcass. 

She sits by her favorite window, which is cracked open. The city is awash with life, loud and distracting, Cabs are yellow lines traced across NYC, the people rushing on the sidewalk outside her apartment. Someone is yelling across the street.

It’s so different from Oklahoma. When she first moved, a year after the funeral, she’d felt pangs of homesickness that had been outweighed by the relief. Relief that she could walk outside, live in her home without constant reminders of who she’d lost. 

That has lasted till now. An invite on the kitchen table. Voicemails on her phone.

When the phone rings, she continues standing by the window and picks up. 

“Babe, I know this is no time difference issue,” Ansel says. 

“It’s not,” Aelin replies. “I’m busy. I have work,” and it’s not a lie. Numbly, Aelin closes her window. Silence rushes in. She puts on her heels by the door, straightens her blazer, double checks her lipstick in the hallway mirror. 

“Oh yeah?” Annie stays. “Well you’re on the line now.”

“Guess I am,” she says. “How are you?”

A sigh, like Ansel is contemplating what to say. The truth, a lie, an in-between. “Shit, honestly. Mik was…he was doing good, doing something he was proud of. When that place burned down-” she cuts off, and Aelin knows they’re imagining the same thing.

Mik’s body next to two others. He is wearing a baseball hat and Mia’s favorite blue bandana. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. Automatic. Even she hates the way it sounds, remembering a time when she wanted to rake people’s eyes out for saying that to her.

Her apartment door shuts behind her. She locks it and strides to the bronze elevator door, before deciding to take the narrow cement stairs. Ansel continues on as if she hadn’t spoken, “and his sister’s wrecked. Boyfriend too. They’ve been staying at our place,” here she cuts off to yell for Ilias. “Hey, Ace is on the phone. Come say hi.”

Ilias’s voice joins the line, “long time, no calls.”

“I just called you the other month,” she remarks. But deep down, she does miss the days the group was inseparable. Calling once a month will never fill the void that not seeing them every day has left. Like a pit in her stomach that only grew itchy weeds. 

Without Sam and Mia, she’d felt like an outsider. Ansel and Ilias had each other, Mik had his boyfriend. Aelin was a burden, who wasn’t capable of being a shoulder to cry on or the person she’d been before. Just an aimless shell.

And she had tried damnit. But one failed relationship later, she was packing her bags and fleeing Oklahoma. She got her current job as a meteorologist, specializing in hurricane and tornado patterns.  

“That’s cold,” Ilias complains. “New York has made you cold , you stone cold bitch.”

“She’s always been a stone-cold bitch,” Ansel says.

At the bottom of the stairs, Aelin opens the door onto the street. The noise immediately assaults her senses, and she thinks that they’re right in a way. “Boo, pot meet kettle,” Aelin says to Ansel. 

“Well, I never said I wasn’t one,” Ansel says. “Tell her to visit,” she tells Ilias.

Aelin hails a cab and climbs into the leather backseat. It smells like cologne and air freshener, in a combo that’s almost dizzying. She gives the driver the address, while Ilias starts needling her.

“I’ll buy you food from your favorite place, we can vandalize some shit-”

She huffs a laugh. “Very enticing, but we’re not 16 anymore.”

“Okay, okay, consider this,” he pauses dramatically. 

Aelin hums. “Alright, I’m listening.”

“We miss you,” he says solemnly, after another beat. Her heart aches at the sincerity, and she turns her head to the window so the cab driver can’t see her expression. 

“I miss y’all too. And I’ll think about it, okay? Promise.” After a pause, she says, “now I gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sure,” he says. Ansel echoes him with a, “goodbye, babe.” Then the call cuts off, and Aelin is left with her thoughts.

She makes it all the way to work, mind churning. She strides onto the elevator and through halls, her heels clicking against the floor, sending casual waves to her co-workers. But her mind lingers in Oklahoma fields. The field , where she lost two of her best friends.

Nox waves at her from his cubicle. “Morning, Lin.”

“Morning,” she greets, smiling tensely. She walks all the way down the narrow aisle to her own desk, settling on her chair with a sigh. There are several voicemails on her answering machine, and she has the nagging feeling that at least one is from her hometown friends who were tired of her ignoring calls on her cell. 

Knowing she might regret it later, she deletes all the messages and buries herself in work. Several hours pass like that, her in a numb daze and hardly responding to her coworkers. She somehow manages to get a report to her boss by noon, choke down her caesar salad, and work on visualizing some data. 

It’s only when she returns to her apartment, curled up on the couch with a bottle of wine, that her thoughts inevitably wander back to Mikkhail. His riotous curls, the blue bandana he used to wear (Mia’s), his country songs blasting on the truck. 

It’s late when she finally picks up the phone, not even registering what time it must be in Oklahoma. 

A groggy voice picks up. “It’s three a.m, babe.”

“I’m coming home,” she announces, the bundle of nerves in her chest tightening rapidly.

“Well, goddamn. Book a flight then, bitch. We’ll see you here.”

Rowan is late to the airport, and it’s all Fen’s fault. The man had conveniently forgotten that he was supposed to pick up Vaughan and his daughter, who were back from visiting Vaughan’s wife on her business trip in California. So, Rowan had gotten the last minute call to do so. 

He taps his fingers nervously on the wheel. It had taken him months to be willing to drive again after the accident. There was still an underlying feeling of anxiety anytime he sat in the car, the sensation of metal walls crumpling around him. Rowan shook himself out of his thoughts, focusing on the roads and slow movement of traffic in the city.  

Twenty minutes later, he finally managed to park in the airport. He quickly makes his way through the main doors, towards the arrival area. His gaze flits over the passengers, laden with luggage, in search of a familiar face.

He thinks he spots a flash of pink and he moves towards it, glancing at his watch. In his haste, he misses the blonde typing something out on her phone. The two collide, his shoulder clipping hers and sending her stumbling. 

Rowan curses quietly, as the woman’s phone clatters to the ground. 

He reaches down to grab it at the same time as her, fingers brushing hers. As he meets her eyes, he notices the shocking blue and the honey gold ring in the center. Like a July sky and fields of wheat, along with freckles dotted across her nose. She’s pretty, he thinks distantly, but not enough to tempt him especially with her current scowl. 

He manages to pick up her phone, handing it to her.

“Thanks,” she says begrudgingly, expression easing into something neutral. “Sorry to barge into you.” Her tone is flippant, though, unapologetic. He also notes her accent, more east coast than anything which stands out in an area like this. 

“Maybe you should take your eyes off your phone,” he mutters, standing up and glancing to where he thought he saw his god-daughter. It’s snappier than he meant it to be, but his nerves are still buzzing with the stress of driving in the heavy traffic. And the airport is far louder than he’s used to these days, people surrounding him, their chatter echoing in his ears.

She scoffs, eyes still fixed on her phone as she types out a message. “Thanks for the advice, asshole. You could stand to watch where you’re going, you know,” she says. If the accent wasn’t clear enough, her brand new phone and crisp business suit said volumes about her. Probably from a big city, with some corporate job. 

Her gaze fixes on something beyond him and she’s about to walk away, when a figure comes barreling past her legs. 

“Uncle Rowan!” Wren cheers, her pink cowboy hat atop her riotous black pigtails. She has a little lisp when she says his name, unable to pronounce the r. 

“Hi, little bird,” Rowan greets, leaning down to scoop up the three year old. “Running off from your father?” he says sternly, not seeing Vaughan anywhere in his line of vision.

Wren pointedly ignores that, waving at the blonde beside them instead. She seems startled, but sends the girl a soft smile. Her blue eyes seem to sparkle with the action, cheeks dimpling. 

“Hi,” Wren says. “You’re pretty! Do you know Uncle Rowan?”

“Um,” flustered, the woman glances around her. “Thank you. You’re very pretty too,” she reaches out to tug a tassel on Wren’s hat. “And I love your hair.”

The girl’s responding grin is blinding, and Rowan sighs through his nose. 

Vaughan chooses that moment to rush up to them, looking frazzled. “You can’t go running off like that, Wren!”

“Sorry papa,” she answers sheepishly. “I found Uncle Rowan.”

“I see that,” Vaughan says, clapping Rowan on the shoulder. “Thanks for picking us up.” He seems to notice the woman who was inching away from their group, brow furrowing. “Do I know you?”

She is saved from answering by a familiar man arriving behind her, a hand on his shoulder. “Hey Ace,” Aedion greets, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Vaughan, Whitethorn. Fancy us all running into each other here,” he says.

Realization seems to hit Vaughan at the same time as Rowan. It’s impossible not to see the resemblance between the two, matching eyes and hair down to the last fleck of gold in their irises and the gentle wave in their locks. He only really knows Aedion through Fen, and never would have guessed the stranger was related to him.

“My cousin, Aelin. Visiting from New York,” Aedion says. 

Explains the accent. She waves at Vaughan sheepishly, seeming more comfortable with Aedion’s arm slung around her shoulders. “Pleasure to meet you,” she says, though her gaze is fixed on Aedion still. He ruffles her hair affectionately, and she scowls as she ducks away from him.

“I’m Vaughan, nice to meet you,” the man says, holding out a hand.

She shakes his hand. Then pokes Wren on the nose when the girl interjects with, “I’m Wren.” Although, she pronounces it when. “It’s nice to meet you, Wren,” she says, glancing back at her cousin.

He seems to pick up on some silent plea to leave, because then they’re making their goodbyes and strolling away. Rowan, still holding Wren, watches the two blonde heads vanish into the distance.

Vaughan clears his throat and reaches for Wren, who clambers back into his arms happily. “No more running off, yes? Even if you see someone you know, wait for us to walk over together,” he tells his daughter, who nods solemnly in response.

“How was the trip?” Rowan asks, grabbing a suitcase from Vaughan as they make their way towards the exit.

“Good, Wren was excited to see her mother. It’s been a long month without her here,” Vaughan answers. “But we’re glad to be home, too.” He sends Rowan a scrutinizing glance, down to the restless fingers tapping against his jeans. “Thanks for picking us up. I can drive back?”

Rowan shrugs, uncertain whether he wants to take Vaughan up on that. Driving alone is one thing, driving with Wren in the backseat is another. And out of his friends, he trusts Vaughan driving his pickup up the most. And Fen the least, no surprises there. The man prefers riding motorcycles and his self-preservation on the road is…concerning.

Wren was rambling about something, half coherent. Rowan tunes in to the topic of the beaches in California and the whale they saw and sandcastles. In the end, as they reach the airport parking lot, Rowan sighs and hands Vaughan his keys. Then he grabs Wren and settles her into the backseat, sitting across from her. 

 Despite having no way of knowing how much Rowan hated cars, Wren does a decent job of distracting him on the ride back to their place where the duo insists he spend the night. So he agrees, thoughts of Lyria tucked away and ignored, and the memory of his earlier collision with the blonde forgotten. 

At least, temporarily. Tornados can always reform after all.