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She’s not allowed to like him - not his endless stream of witty comebacks or his half baked diatribes. Not the way he traces his lips with the tip of his thumb when he’s deep in thought. Not how he laughs when she cracks jokes that she didn’t think would land. Not the way his hands twitch when he’s bored and trying to find something to fiddle with. Not the soft smile his mouth relaxes into when he’s glancing at her out of the corner of his eyes and thinks she won’t notice.
(She notices. And yet, she’s gullible enough to believe that he won’t when she does the same.)
With each day that passes, she falls further and further into the fantasy. The one where where she didn’t sign a legal document tying herself to Adam at age 19. One where she’s got agency over her life, where she can flirt with her totally-not-cute coworker without getting a pang in her chest whenever she catches herself going too far. Where they can laugh about the most outrageous customers over morning coffee and brush the backs of their hands together without it feeling like a low level offense.
And then the tornado hits.
He grabs her and pulls her to safety, then wraps his arms around her. He doesn’t let go. He’s holding onto her like nothing matters more to him, like she’ll fly away if he so much as lifts a finger, and he’d never forgive himself if she did.
She lifts her head to take him in - first noting his furrowed brow and the terror in his eyes, and then his lips. The ones she’d watched him bite and worry and trace with his thumb, now still and parted as he looks at her. His expression shifts to one of confusion. Before he can say anything, she lifts her hand up to the side of his face and kisses him.
She’s never been allowed to kiss him. But now, she doesn’t even think about it. She’s not even sure that she’s thinking about the threat of death anymore; there’s nothing but the wind in her hair, his hands on her back, his lips on hers.
All she can think in the moment is thank god he kissed me back as he cradles her face in his hands. He’s being gentle, but passionate. The storm is deafening, but all she can hear is the sound of her own heartbeat, all she can feel is his warmth.
She’s hardly even aware of what she’s doing at this point. They’re both moving closer, clutching onto each other like they’re life rafts. She feels like she might be on fire, like something that’s long been dormant has awoken, like Jonah is all that matters in this moment.
Then the roar dies down. As it dissipates, her conscious thoughts start to slowly come back.
She pulls away, ever so slightly. Her arms are still around his waist and his hand is in her hair. She feels his fingertips twitch before he lowers his arms so that they’re still around her, but not holding on so dearly.
Her eyes open. They meet his gaze to find shock mixed with the terror from before.
She doesn’t know what to say. She can tell that he doesn’t either. They stay there beneath the pharmacy counter for a few moments, each assessing the other, hearts racing, breath laboring.
“We should probably go find the others,” he says, breaking the silence first.
She agrees. But she doesn’t say it right away. Because standing up means leaving his arms, which means life goes back to the way it was, which means that they can’t do this.
She doesn’t say anything. She only leans in and kisses him one last time, hard and fast. When she pulls away, he kisses her again. Tender and slow. Almost like he wants this to be hard for her.
And then they get up.
She wants to pretend that the tears stinging the back of her eyes are because they could’ve died. Because Emma could’ve lost her mom today, they could’ve lost friends, and they don’t yet know the extent of the destruction. And, of course, those aren’t entirely off the table.
But Jonah grabs her hand and squeezes it, just once, and Amy doesn’t know if this tornado was the best or worst thing to ever happen to her.