CHAPTER TWO : COSMIC

FIVE YEARS LATER

LITTLE ROCK, ARKANSAS

SOMETIMES, WILLOW THINKS THE INCIDENT HAD BEEN THE CLIMAX. The turning point of her story: the moment that everything takes a turn for the worse and she slips into a falling action, waiting for some sort of happy ending.

There is no happy ending, though, only loss after loss until the only thing that can be stolen from her is some weak notion of fame she has no interest in holding. There is no sweet resolution, no moral of the story to learn except she must move on with a gaping wound in her chest that she ignores and ignores just to have some sort of semblance of life to her.

And what a semblance it is; this life she has somehow built full of nothing but frills and pretenses. Willow Mae Thornton, chief meteorologist of Channel 9, who only ever intended to work as an assistant able to hide away in the shadows with the data and minimal servitude, only to be practically peer pressured into rising to the top. And she knows she could have said no, but what reason did she have? What in her life could push her toward either direction when all that remained was just her?

It becomes much easier to pretend to be what others want of her when she feels she has nothing left to want for, no matter how draining it feels some days.

Willow learns to curl her hair and perfect her undereye makeup to hide the darkening bags. She wears a television—ready smile and stands before the green screen to report on the weather for central Oklahoma five days a week. She spends her time off-screen appearing at local events, story-time at libraries, and weather-safety seminars.

It is what she does that very weekend; out and about at a meteorology conference in Arkansas to network and gather content for the station. Ronald, the producer, had been ecstatic to throw money towards the conference if it meant they could get footage of their rising star milling about. The locals love her; the ratings had been on the up and up since her debut and boy, were they willing to milk it.

Willow walks about the booths with her assistant trailing after her. It is a four-day event and their first day has been jam-packed with cameras shoved in her face and rubbing elbows with other reporters, even only three hours in. She cannot help but feel drained already, but her assistant is still perked up.

"That's Wesley Shane from the Weather Channel," Joel says, pointing out a man surrounded by enough blonde weather girls already. "We should introduce ourselves."

Willow tries not to visibly cringe at the idea. She makes an effort not to complain- she grew up seeing enough fury from her great aunt anytime she ever groaned about the most trivial of things- but she reached her limit sometime around the 'meteorologist snack bar tour' for the Channel 9 Tiktok. There is only so much forced smiling she can do, only so much time she can spend sweet-talking other television weather personalities that thrive off the local fame of it all. Her feet hurt, her head hurts, and lord, she just wants to go back to her hotel room.

"Maybe later, Joel," she says in an attempt to remain polite. "He already seems busy."

"Oh, for sure." Of course, he is still all smiles even in the wake of her uneasiness.

Joel is oblivious to it all. He is in his element; as wide-eyed and bushy-tailed as the day she met him. He is insistent they meet everyone worthwhile and somehow everyone seems worthwhile. He greets them all with big grins and a show of linking their names together as if they come in a pair and only ever as a pair. Willow wishes he could do most of the talking, but as lead meteorologist for the station, most questions and interest are pointed at her.

There is not a day that goes by that she doesn't curse the former lead meteorologist, Logan Harries, for deciding she would take over his mantle at retirement. Joel had been a shoo-in for it with his years of interning experience at the station, right up until her arrival two years before he made his departure. With her accuracy in storm tracking and data processing skills, Joel becomes an afterthought, despite having the better shining television weatherman personality.

And it is not that he minds. Willow thought he would despise her for it, loathe her for the fact that she swept the position right out from under him. She even tries to decline the position for him, but Joel wears a bright smile and encourages her to plant her feet further in the station. He remains an assistant, her assistant now, eager to please at every turn.

"Well, how about the tech showcase?" Joels decides to suggest. "It would be great to get some footage with how much our viewers that segment you did with features on storm-chasing technology."

Willow smiles, as sweetly as possible so it isn't clear she is going to tear her hair from her own skull. "What if we took a break instead?" Even on her shortest of days at the station, she gets to sit in her office for at least thirty minutes of peace. Yes, she spends most of it still tracking numbers and cells, but she gets to shut her door and pretend the world around her doesn't exist for half an hour.

"But half of these vendors and presenters could be gone tomorrow—"

"Then what if you grabbed us some coffee first?" She interrupts—her eyes halfway to twitching. "I sure could use a pick-me-up."

Joel finally pauses. "You want your usual?" He insists that her usual is a non-fat soy latte with one sugar. She does not have enough energy to correct him.

Willow presents her smile again, all teeth and no emotion, and nods. "That'd be great. Thanks."

Joel leaves her with what he thinks is a comforting tap on her arm, but his absence finally relieves her. Tre is a weight off her shoulders as no one is there asking her to be anything. The coffee lines are long—she saw them when they passed by earlier in the day—so she can only hope it distracts Joel long enough that she can recharge. 

Willow finds a quiet alley of booths to take her reprieve. Most of them are author booths; the textbook side of the meteorology conference. It's not empty, but not as exciting as the radar showcase towards the front of the convention hall; only professors and true enthusiasts venture this far. On her own, Willow finally feels like she can breathe a little easier and minds the books as if she fits right into the crowd.

She wanders down the line, minding the books little interest until she reaches the showstoppers towards the middle. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees an image of metal with a painted numeral that she knows all to well.

She spent too many hours attempting to rebuild the damn thing to not recognize it upon sight.

The author booth holds a reconstructed DOROTHY IV, no true recreation, but a model that points out all of the moving parts of pieces she studied by heart. It has the same, chipped red paint and Dorothy sticker on the side that stories go Dusty had insisted on slapping on the side. She moves her gaze to the banner behind it: DOROTHY '96: Storm Chasing in the Oklahoma Outbreak of 1996.

Willow stills at the picture of the crew, the one who she spent more time with than kids her age. She learned plenty from those before her; how to navigate maps to chase the best storms, how to drive her uncle up the wall, and how family meant more than those related by blood. They sit now framed forever in a poster right next to a book title dedicated to them.

And there was Jo and Bill, at the center of them all, as youthful as the day the social worker left her on their porch. Willow feels her throat tighten.

No one ever told her about a book. No one ever mentioned the history she spent years listening to and building upon would be put down to page. She doesn't even recognize the author who is clearly boasting about getting interviews and images no other reporter had from Jo herself.

(Sometimes, she has to remind herself that no one would go out of their way to tell her anymore.)

Willow grabs one of the books off the stand and barely acknowledges the front cover. She flips it open, turning to the short summary on the dust jacket and then the first few pages. She pauses at the dedication.

In loving memory of William "Bill" Harding.

Willow brushes her thumb against the print, stark black and forever; a jarring note she has only ever seen once before on the front of a stone resting under a sprouting willow tree. It still manages to stun her; the reminder that he is no longer a phone call away, that she cannot go home and he would be there, tinkering with something in the garage just perfect for her next chase.

His health had never been perfect—years of storm-chasing accidents taking a toll on his body—but it began to slip further after the incident. His first heart attack occurred after the reporting EMT informed them she had been picked up as one of the only three survivors of her storm-chasing team. If her own trauma had not been enough to end her endeavors in the field, that had been, just to save his heart from any more stress.

But as the world is unfair and everything she tries is for naught, another occurs a year down the line, and she is there to cradle Jo in her arms when they take him out on the stretcher for the final time, both sobbing.

Fuck. Willow curses herself and tries to blink back her tears. Her therapist tells her it is perfectly normal for her eyes to still well up at the thought of him, but she cannot help but be ashamed now with strangers surrounding her. They must think her some Harding-obsessed, storm-chaser groupie rather than the little girl who spent her entire life hanging on to every word of the man depicted before her, the closest thing she ever had to a father.

Willow shuts the book and clutches it tight. She takes a deep breath and pretends the scar on her arm is not aching from the grip she keeps. She counts to fifteen—deep breaths in and out to bring herself back from the edge she is always toeing the line off. One push, one singular push, and she could tumble down with nothing to ground her.

Her count is not even over when a deep voice draws her over her haze, tugging her right back.

"It's a powerful story, isn't it?"

Willow turns abruptly at the sound—her eyes meeting a flanneled chest to her left. She attempts to swallow down her emotion at a moment's notice and looks up, her red, shot eyes meeting his clear blue ones.

A long time ago, back when she still had a curfew and her learner's permit, Dustin brought home a girl who likened herself to a psychic medium. It had been the most fascinating of their Sunday dinners, especially when she started reading palms and tarot readings for party tricks. Willow remembers asking how Dustin met her and how he painted the story so beautifully.

"It was like two stars colliding, Will," he told her at the table, seeming utterly convinced by the psychic lingo of his latest girlfriend. "When you meet your match, you'll know. The universe just clicks into place."

Dustin got dumped three weeks later, making the story he painted seem like a crock of horse shit.

Until now; until the world seems to still around them, the chatter of the convention settling into some distant noise. Willow's breath catches in her throat as she peers up at him, her eyes round and wide.  There is this charge in the air she cannot deny, one she has not felt since she wandered into that small, classroom lab on the north side of campus years ago and saw a head of brunette hair, but so much stronger. What had felt like a surge of electricity grows into a damn lightning strike that simmers out to the soft, platitude of ease and understanding.

It reminds her of one of those historical romances Addy would deny she loved until Praveen would choose them on movie night just for her—where the leads' eyes connect across the ballroom and there is this undeniable connection forming from just a single look- as if they have been waiting their entire lives for one another.

Willow notices as his lips curve into a small, disbelieving smile. She wonders if he feels it too if she has finally slipped into the insanity that she always thought she would.

(And he feels it. Felt it the moment he spotted her down book-alley, her hair curled to perfection, dressed like every other weather girl in the room, but stuck in place before a storm chasing booth as if it was home. He will spend hours trying to put into words, the tug that brings him right to her.)

"Hi," he greets her first, a little breathless, and she takes a moment to admire him.

He looks just as out of place as she feels; a certified cowboy get-up with his large and in charge belt buckle holding up his jeans and tucking in his flannel. Sleeves rolled up to the elbow, showing off his tanned, muscular arms that might have made her drool if she saw him from afar. His smile is a little crooked, blue eyes warm and friendly, but she knows he still carries himself with a flair of arrogance just by seeing how pretty he is.

"Hi," she finally finds her voice. Willow dabs at the corners of her eyes behind her hair with her just in case of any more tears. "Sorry, um, what did you ask me?"

The chuckle that leaves him sends butterflies through her stomach. "The Hardings," he clarifies for her. "It's a powerful story, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes," she finally answers and clutches the book in her hands even tighter than before, "it is."

"Can't help but admire 'em," he agrees with her, playfully grinning. He looks upon the DOROTHY crew poster again, a little spark in his eyes."The old legends of chasing. They were the real deal, not like us thrill-seekers now, huh?"

"I wouldn't say they weren't thrill-seekers," she corrects, quietly. Willow cannot help but regret saying it the second it leaves her, especially with the way his gaze darts back to her, waiting for further explanation. She shrugs. "Everyone has their reasons for chasing. Some of them are in it for the science, some for the thrill," then she thinks of her and Jo, "and, well, sometimes it can be a lot more personal."

He lets out an impressed noise and she finally glances up again at him. "Yeah, you got a point," he says, his grin shifting. It becomes less playful, stealing the cockiness right out of him to be replaced with something akin to genuine appreciation. Willow knows her cheeks are probably stark red from how he looks at her, and it only worsens when he leans in. "So, what's your reason?"

Willow lets out a short, uneasy laugh at the question. "Me?" The man doesn't let up with his brow raised towards her. She just shakes her head.  "Oh, I ain't much of a chaser." And it is the truth- maybe not the entirety of it, but enough of it.

He isn't convinced. "For someone who ain't much of a chaser, you sure got the emotional drive of it down to a science."

"Well,..." she trails off, hesitating. "Okay, I ain't much of a chaser anymore," she corrects but certainly is not willing to elaborate any more than she already has. The man doesn't look surprised by her admission. "I just report on the weather. It's..."

Willow pauses, unsure of how to truly compare them. At heart, she knows it's nowhere near chasing. There is no thrill or rush, but sometimes, she can convince herself it's enough. She still gets her sacred mornings with the early rising to keep watch on the dopplers and track the forecast, only just from the comforts of her studio office. But it does not have the same charm of following a storm in beaten-down trucks and it never will.

"It's different," she finally decides with a simple shrug. Willow finds his gaze again and she doesn't think he's looked away from her with that smile. "What about you? What's your reason?"

"I guess I'm a thrill seeker more than a scientist," he tells her with this spark to his eyes she has seen before, mirrored in her own, mirrored in dark brown ones always in the passenger seat. "I tried the lab thing in undergrad but there's something about being out in the chaos. Out there, chasing..." The cowboy waves his hand into the distance, toward the outside world around them.  "...that's where you really feel it."

"There ain't nothing like it," she breathes out in agreement because she knows exactly what he means.

She knows it deep in her soul, even as the fear of the storm settles in on every memory she's had of a chase. And on some nights, what she would not do to be in the front seat again with her, watching the miracles of nature at work. She can almost feel the wind whipping against her hair and the beat of the rain shield down on the roof of the truck. The promise of hope hangs in the air with each new round of data from another storm and then she goes home to Jo and Meg and Bill...

Until she remembers the faces of all it has taken from her, of the fear she felt under the overpass, clutching onto her best friend and waiting for it to kill her too.

But this man doesn't know any of that and it ain't worth risking telling him. No, not when he looks at her like she is the answer to all of the mysteries he has been trying to unravel.

She swallows, hard, trying to make herself seem nonchalant. "I take it you're a chaser, then?"

"If you feel it, chase it, baby," he says and it surprises her so much she laughs, a hearty one that she feels right down in her stomach. He watches her with such pride, as if he won first place at the county fair and it has set the tone of winning for the rest of his life. "I'm Tyler," he finally introduces himself.

"Willow."

"Hi, Willow." She likes the way he says her name; like he's committing it to a memory that will last a lifetime. "You gonna' tell me how you ended up in a booth about storm-chasing legends when you 'ain't much of a chaser'?"

"Well, I think I'm actually supposed to be networking." She avoids truly answering the question. "But I don't think I'm doing a great job at it."

"I don't know about that. You're talking to me, aren't you?" If she didn't know any better, he's flirting with her. Willow bites her lip to keep from smiling so big but she thinks she's failing at that too.

"Alright, charmer," she playfully rolls her eyes at him. "What made you wander down here to this booth, then?"

"Just something caught my eye," he gives her a once over as he says it. there goes hiding that smile of hers. Tyler's tongue darts out across his lips before he rests his hands on his hips as if he is making a decision. "You know, I was just about to hit the tech floor," he starts again. "I know you said you 'you ain't much of a chaser' but something tells me you know your way around a radar."

The invitation goes unsaid but it's clear by the way he cocks his head at her. "I'm not sure if I can be as much help as you think."

"Well, maybe, I just want an excuse to network with you more."

Willow wants to pretend she knows men like him; cowboys who know they're pretty could wrap her around their finger with the smoothest lines. The kind of boys she let spend years breaking her heart, letting Kate and Javi pick up the pieces. He certainly has the same charm and drawl that had her spending her Thursday nights line dancing in bars and Fridays in the stands as bulls kicked dust into the air every week of undergrad.

But she knows it is not true, not when she can feel an invisible string tugging her towards him. The only red flag she sees is that she is sure no one in the world has ever said no to that grin of his.

Well, she isn't going to be the first.

Willow finally returns the book to the stand and prepares to follow what feels like destiny down the beaten path. "Lead the way, cowboy."

◆ ◆ ◆

IT IS THREE HOURS LATER THAT SHE FINALLY REMEMBERS SHE CAME WITH SOMEONE TO THE CONFERENCE. Her phone spends those three hours buzzing periodically with text after text, but it's a distant sound when Tyler is before her, rambling on about weather phenomena. It is music to her ears; she could listen for hours to a cowboy who knows his way around the storm.

And he does not let her out of the conversation either. He prokes and prods about the right things; never attempting to dig into the part of her soul that feels empty and hollow, but side-stepping it.  He pulls at everything else, tugs out notes and interests that seemed long gone back out into the world.

Tyler figures out her tells before she even notices: how she bites her lip when she has an opinion that she isn't so sure she can share, or how her hand twitches beside her when she wants to break apart a piece of equipment. He asks her questions about radars, unrelenting until she gives him real answers that make that grin stretch from ear to ear and lean down to tell her she's more of help than she gives herself credit for. He somehow manages to crack her open in ways she never expected to be;

He aptly listens to her spiel on LiDAR systems, praises her for hassling with a salesperson on his behalf, and is more than pleased to go through one of those cheesy twister simulators by himself just to make her smile.

Willow tries not to feel disappointed when they wrap up with everything worthwhile on the equipment floor, including attending two seminars that Tyler spends the entire time whispering to her through. It is entirely too cheesy, and overly sappy at this point when it comes to a man she just met, but she fears the end. Time with him flies by and she wants to beg it to slow down, so she can cherish the feeling a little longer.

She stands waiting for him at the front, holding on to her promise that she would not budge until he returned from his trip to the restroom. Reality slips back into place without him before her- the life she built for herself looming back over, threatening to drag her back. She tugs her phone out of her blazer pocket to see several notifications from Joel, asking after her and expressing his disappointment that she ditched him.

Willow sighs and types out a brief message of apology, wrapped up with a lie knows will sate him. If anyone asks, she has spent her day rubbing elbows with some of the finest television reporters from New York, spreading the good name of Channel 9 to the bigwigs. Joel instantly replies, pleased, and tells her to take her time buttering them up.

"Boyfriend givin' you trouble?" Tyler returns to ask from behind her. Willow cranes her neck to look up at him, seeing the little frown threatening to form at the slew of texts on her screen.

Willow does not hesitate to let out a bark of laughter. "Boyfriend? Oh, lord, no," it comes out much meaner than she intends it to be. Willow notices the frown slips away into relief on his face. "It's just my assistant."

He lets out a low whistle. "I didn't realize you were important enough to have an assistant."

Willow rolls her eyes at him. "Important enough to have a clingy one." She pauses to slip her phone back into her pocket and turns to him with a hint of mischief in her eyes. "I kind of ditched him for you."

His face stretches into a wide grin. "Well, aren't I damn lucky he ain't good at keeping a pretty thing like you in line?"

It is the first time he's called her pretty. She thanks the lord she hadn't been drinking or eating because she would have choked. "Lord, Tyler," she whines at the most direct flirt of his yet, "buy a girl a drink first."

"Alright," he replies without missing a beat.

Willow blinks. "What?"

"I'm taking you out for drinks."

Her eyes go a little wide. "I wasn't saying you had to—"

Tyler shuts her down instantly, interrupting her to swing his arm around her shoulder. "I got this little place in mind already. You'll love it."

She crosses her arm over her chest, unable to help the playful grin she wears as she challenges him. "How would you know what I'd love?"

"I think I'm figuring you out, weather girl," he tells her, leaning in as if it's the world's greatest secret. Tyler's voice drops lower, more intense than before as he looks down at her. "And I ain't ready to quit with you yet," he reveals and she thinks she might burst from the revelation. "Tell me you'll go."

Willow wants to hesitate; the looming feeling of dread and anxiety sits over her shoulder, tracing up her spine as it tells her that it is too good to be true. There are no happy endings for her, no good left in the world for her to find, only passive contentment that will never look like the string between them. The string will only grow taut, fraying until it tears and breaks, leaving her behind again.

But Tyler manages to disarm her with those eyes as if they can see into her very soul and strangle whatever tries to keep him out. Her defenses fall without her even realizing it. That perfect weather girl mask, the Pollyanna platitude she wears day to day, slips so easily in his presence, revealing hints of a person she did not know even existed anymore. It is as if she is above water for the first time again, not forgetting the feeling of drowning, but remembering what it meant to breathe.

"You are very lucky you're pretty."

◆ ◆ ◆

THE PERFECT SPOT ENDS UP BEING AN OLD DIVE BAR DOWN THE STREET. And it is. Perfect, that is; it would have been the spot she chose herself, years ago, with her friends all settled by the bar and her name signed up to ride the bull after she got three drinks in. Tyler tells her as he leads her to a booth in the corner that this had been his preferred haunt during his time at UA Little Rock, beers in hand and nachos he says are to die for.

"I quit after my bachelor's," he tells her when she asks how far he went into the program. "Didn't see a lotta' sense in gettin' a degree to chase."

"It certainly ain't a requirement anymore," she agrees, watching his expression shift to one of appreciation.

"You get it." He raises his drink to her.

Willow clinks her own with his in cheers before taking a swig. The bitter liquid runs down her throat; cool, refreshing, and just the liquid courage she needs. Tyler never takes his eyes off her for a moment; she only knows because she cannot help but watch him.

"What about you?" He asks next. "How far'd you get?"

"I have a BS in physics and an MS in atmospheric science," she tries to play it down with a shrug. It seems kind of silly to tell him, especially when all it has amounted to is a career as a local weather girl now.

Tyler's eyes widen and he wolf whistles, clearly impressed. "Pretty well-decorated for just reportin' on the weather."

Willow knows he is right, Joel meets the requirements with just his double major in meteorology and broadcasting. What a waste—she heard once, a comment she was never meant to catch between two hushed voices in the kitchen. She puts on that easy, weather-girl smile, but it feels thinner, more fragile than usual, cracking around the edges. 

"I guess it doesn't really matter what you got when you're just reportin' either, right?"

His gaze softens on her, nowhere near a fool like some others."I ain't saying that," he corrects gently, his hand sliding across the table to find hers. He links their fingers together and gives her hand a light squeeze. "I bet you're the best damn reporter there is with those degrees. I just wasn't expecting you to have all of that under your belt."

The complement isn't new—she hears it all the time. Joel praises her after each segment, no matter if it is sun-shine pleasantries or soul-heavy tornado warnings. Willow knows what he does; giving out flattery to ground her further in the career, drag her deeper into something she never truly set out for. But coming from Tyler, it doesn't feel empty: it feels genuine.

"Was that always the end goal? Reportin'?" He skirts around the topic like he already knows the answer, just waiting for her to admit it.

Willow hesitates. "Um, no," she finally confesses, lips pressed into a thin line. "But it ended up being better for me anyways," she adds, almost as if she is trying to convince herself more than him.

Tyler's brows draw together slightly, his lips parting as if he wants to ask more, but she cuts in, shifting his focus.  "What about you?"

Tyler lets her change the subject and scoffs at himself. "I thought I was gonna' be some hotshot bull-rider," he tells her, grinning. he says with a grin, glancing down at their still-connected hands. He toys with her fingers absentmindedly, a gentle gesture that doesn't go unnoticed. "Ran the rodeo circuit for a little bit. Got my head stomped on by one too many bulls. Thought college might be better for my brain."

"A storm nerd and a cowboy;" Willow plays it off with a smirk, but she can feel her heart racing, half in disbelief, "aren't I lucky?"

(Jeb always teased about finding her a storm-chasing cowboy- thinking that them rodeo boys would get put out of business the moment she got her a man who could ride and steal her thunder all at the same time. Willow, tipsy and heartbroken on more than one occasion, would let out a watery laugh and tell him it was wishful thinking.

She cannot help but wonder if Jeb sent him to her.)

"What, you got a thing for storm nerds?" Tyler asks.

"I got a little bit of a thing for cowboys," she says, watching that grin grow more smug by the second,  "storm thing is just a bonus."

Time passes, measured in two more beers and an eventually empty plate of nachos that Tyler had been entirely right about. She feels lighter, warmer—a perfect blend of satisfaction between her buzz and listening to her cowboy's storm-chasing and rodeo escapades. His stories are wilder, livelier than even the rambunctious crew of storm chasers she spent Thanksgiving with.

Willow gives him her undivided attention, elbow propped against the grain of the table and her chin resting on her palm. Tyler spins tales of his storm-chasing team and she absorbs every single word of them; from the one about his good buddy getting knocked out with a stop sign during an EF1 or the last bull that near did him in. He draws her in, leaving her utterly entranced.

Then, he pauses, looking down at their intertwined hands.  "I don't wanna keep borin' you with more stories..." Tyler trails off a little sheepishly.

Willow shakes her head at him. "You ain't borin' me," she assures him with a blissful smile, a soft warmth to her eyes."I like hearing them."

"It isn't fair that I've been sitting here talking your ear off the entire night."

"I talked your ear off at the convention," Willow counters.

"About storms," he corrects teasingly, grazing the back of her hand with his thumb, "not about you."

Storms. Her. What is truly the difference? Lately, it feels that is all that remains of her- weather girl in every sense of the phrase. Observing the fronts, reporting on them, and then heading home before the storm can even hit. "I ain't got anything really special to tell like you do."

"I beg to differ," he says softly, so sincere it could make her burst. "Would it be easier to tell me over a dance?"

Willow blinks in surprise and then stares at him for a beat. "You wanna' dance?"

"Sure do," he replies, all that charm coming to the surface to coax her into it. "Don't tell me you don't dance?"

A flicker of nostalgia passes across Willow's face. "I ain't danced in a long time," she admits a little too wistfully.

It feels like another lifetime ago; dancing with those rough-around-the-edges cowboys after a few drinks and then watching them wander on to girls that don't wanna talk their ears off about a storm cloud.

Javi, her knight in shining armor, always came to the rescue, sometimes seeming a little too pleased that they ran off so he could swoop in. He would twirl her around the dance floor, her boots kicking up dust and laughter ringing in the air. He'd always have some quarters to put on that old-fashioned jukebox just so he could always dance her along to his favorite songs.

It makes her heart ache for a moment.

(Somedays she misses him the most, knowing he is still out there, only detached.)

Tyler responds with soft encouragement, "Ain't no time like the present to get back out there then."

It must have been the beers or the way he has not let go of her hand, even when he stands to round the table towards her. Willow is too easily convinced and just knows she's in trouble. "I might be a little rusty." She never says no; rather stands to let him guide her out of the booth.

"I'll take my chances."

Tyler gently tugs her out of her seat and takes them out into the middle of the small dance floor, giving the other lonesome couples company. He draws her closer, only inches apart, and splays his hand against the small of her back. Willow brings her free hand to rest against his shoulder, brushing against the worn fabric of his flannel.

Willow leans into him, her body swaying with his, moving effortlessly to the music. Tyler keeps up with the rhythm of an old, classic country song that she knows by heart. His eyes flicker down to her lips as she mouths along to the words. It is hard to miss- the way he looks at her with such fondness, more than any man who just met her should have.

With a smooth movement, he twirls her out, lifting their joined hands so he can spin her on her heel. When he brings her back, he brings her closer, tucking her right back into his arms.

"I know you like the weather and you're a reporter," he starts in a low voice, keeping her all to himself, "but I wanna know somethin' no one else really knows."

Willow raises a brow at him, her lips quirking into a small smile."I think you want to hold a secret over my head," she teases, but deep down, she cannot ignore the slight unease at the idea. She cannot remember the last time she willingly opened up to someone her insurance wasn't paying for, let alone someone who cared enough to try. Yet, here he is, not pushing, but just waiting patiently with his kind eyes and easy charm, enough to bring down her guard.

"Fine," she finally relents, voice light and her smile shifting into a smirk. "I was in a birdwatching club in high school."

Tyler stops for a second. He raises his brow in surprise, his lips parting in disbelief. "Really? Wouldn't have pegged you for the bird-watching type."

Willow hums with a sure nod. "I even won 'Best Bird Call' for club superlatives."

Tyler does not even have to ask. With an amused glint in her eyes, she lets out a slew of sounds: whistles and chirps that sound every bit as real as it does at sunrise. The other dancers on the floor give them looks, but Willow pays no mind when she hears Tyler's deep, laugh, entirely impressed at her. The sound is worth every judgemental stare in the world and she cannot help but grin.

"Alright, I get a turn," she says, mischief twinkling in her eyes. "Tell me your favorite memory."

"I wanna' hear yours first," Tyler turns it back around on her, "something that whenever you think about it just makes the whole day better."

Willow ponders on it for a moment. "Sunday dinners where I would feed Mose pieces of brisket under the table and listen to all the old-timers."

"I think that's pretty hard to beat."

"What's yours, cowboy?"

"I think the one we're making now might be up there."

Willow rolls her eyes at him with her smile betraying her feigned disappointment. "I want a genuine answer."

"What makes you think that isn't the truth?"

She narrows her eyes playfully. "I think you're a flirt."

"And I think you're beautiful," he tells her, earnestly. Willow flushes red for what feels like the one-hundredth time under his gaze. She still waits for her answer and Tyler lets out a fake, exasperated sigh.  "My buddy, Boone, and I used to set off fireworks in the abandoned furniture store lot back home; had to run from the cops one night and hid in the dumpster so they wouldn't catch us."

The blonde laughs. "I bet you drive through storms like you're in a getaway car."

"I will have you know I am a perfectly safe driver."

"I don't think most safe drivers drive towards tornados," she jokes, "kind of bumps you down on prime candidacy for car insurance."

Tyler snorts at her joke before forcing her out into another spin. He pulls her right back into his arms, back to chest, his cheek resting against her hair as they sway to the music. She basks in the warmth for a moment, one hand around her own with another on her waist, before he turns her around again. His eyes find hers in an instant, the edges of his lips curving into that irresistible grin of his at the sight of her again, staring as if she is something out of a dream. Then, out of nowhere, he shakes his head lightly.

"What?" She asks him.

Tyler hesitates, then chuckles softly, almost in disbelief. "Nothin'. It's just I can't believe I almost didn't come to this thing."

Willow tilts her head, her brows knitting together in confusion. "What do you mean?"

It is the first time she thinks she has ever seen him bashful. Tyler's tongue darts out across his bottom lip and pulls a sheepish smile. "I forgot about the passes to the convention until Boone reminded me," he admits to her. "I planned on ditchin' it to track a cell to the west, but he insisted I show my face- said he had this feelin' in his gut that I'd be missin' somethin' big if I didn't go."

Willow snorts softly, unable to help the melancholy that creeps back up in her. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but that cell might've been the thing to go for. There ain't much worth sticking around for at these things."

Tyler clicks his tongue, shaking his head in disappointment. He taps his thumb against her chin, gentle and affectionate. "Now, that ain't true at all," he chides. His gaze softens and the charm she has gotten to know slips into something much more sincere. "I already found myself something worthwhile."

Willow's breath catches in her throat and she swears her heart just might have skipped a beat. Even the darkest, most self-deprecating parts of her cannot deny the way he looks at her; as if she is the only thing in the room to ever matter in this world. She knows it is hopeless, wishful thinking, but she wants to live in the fantasy for a moment; lets herself imagine him looking at her like that for the rest of their lives.

Willow swallows back the emotion and manages a warm smile. "I'm glad you came, then."

"Me too," he murmurs with one of his own. "I'm startin' to think Boone undersold it, though."

She blushes and bites her lip to hide her grin. "You are such a smooth talker," Willow says with a soft pat on his chest. Tyler grabs her hand and holds it there, right against his heart. She can feel it, a quick pace that would make her think he might be just as flustered as she is.

"I'm not lyin' though," he says, his voice dipping lower as he leans in towards her. "If I hadn't come, I wouldn't have met you."

He says it as if it is simple; like the universe truly pulled some cosmic intervention to bring them together. How easy it would be to believe it, to let herself get swept up by the idea that maybe, just maybe, there truly is that red string of fate between them, all while she gets lost in the blue of his eyes.

"To think you could have missed it," she says, low and breathless.

"I would've been a fool," he agrees reverently. The song around them drowns out, switching to something a little more upbeat that no longer warrants their current proximity. Tyler pulls back enough so he can see her in her full glory again, a small smile tugging at his lips. "One more for the road? I'll walk you back to your room."

Willow arches a brow, a little disappointed to hear him calling for the end of their night. "You ain't gonna' ask me back to yours?"

Tyler lets out a playful sigh. "I consider myself a gentleman—it ain't right to ask a girl back on a first date no matter how much you want to."

"Oh, I never said you weren't a gentleman," she teases, playing along, "but I'd argue that our day together counts as at least two dates."

"Two dates?"

Willow hums as she takes a step closer to him, still in his arms. It feels dangerous, risky, but she cannot let this end here, not with how high he makes her feel. It is the closest to living that she has been in five years and it is this cowboy in front of her who has sparked every surge to her heart again. "The convention was date one and then the drinks; well, that was date two."

Tyler takes a step forward himself, leaning down towards her. His eyes are glazed over but he keeps his voice steady. "When you put it like that..."

His lips are barely ghosting above hers and she can feel her heart racing. It feels odd to know exactly what she wants, to be able to long for the surge of energy between them. It reminds her of the before- when she could throw all caution to the wind, living recklessly and without fear. Those days are gone, but somehow, at this moment, with Tyler in front of her, that version of herself is closer than ever, as if she is slipping into that skin again.

"Tyler?" She asks, her voice just above a whisper.

His eyes never leave hers. "Yes?"

"Are you gonna kiss me, or am I gonna' have to consider dancin' a date too?"

His breath hitches, just for a moment, as if he's caught between surprise and something else entirely. Then, without another word, Tyler closes the distance between them, his hand coming up to gently cup her jaw.

It is a soft thing at first, almost like he's testing the waters, just until her hand slides between them. Willow braces herself against his chest and pushes herself further into the kiss, deepening it. Tyler no longer hesitates; the hand he had around her waist stretching around the small of her back and pressing her firmly against his front.

It has been too long since her last true rendezvous with a man- five years give or take since the last ride she took with one of those competitors from the newest rodeo sweeping into town. There have been dates at the behest of her therapist who suggested that seeking companionship could aid with her grief, but the farthest they ever got was usually over-the-shirt groping while making out in the front seat of the car.

She is not sure which higher power to thank for such an encounter as this- this chance with a cowboy who seemed to understand her without ever prying- or which one to curse because he is only kissing her and she already feels as if all men will be ruined for her but him.

Tyler's hands wander, pressing up against the fullness of her ass through her dark jeans. She ain't ever been kissed the way he's kissing her; like a desperate man, starved of her for ages and this was the first taste he had gotten again in decades. It makes her dizzy, and light-headed in a way she would beg for again.

He pulls back first, his breath ghosting against her lips as he goes to rest his forehead against hers. Willow can feel the brim of his hat push up against her hair. "I wanna' take you home," he tells her in a low, husky voice, "please."

Willow peers up at him through her lashes and nods, feeling a little too breathless to speak just yet.

Tyler just smiles and kisses her again.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This a red string of fate romance for sure. I did change the plot a little because I am a soulmate fanfic lover and I started playing around with the idea that Tyler and Willow connected before they meet when Javi brings them all together. It's an instant, cosmic connection that ties them together even when they're apart.

The parenthesis stuff are like Fleabag interjections. Willow disassociates with the world often even when she is present due to her grief.

As always, I would appreciate feedback and constructive criticism. May go back and edit chapter one, but I like how the story is for now.

thanks for reading,

kari