he minute Jordan looks at me, I forget how much I hate him. I search his face, noting how shaky he looks. His breathing is hard, his chest rising and falling beneath his hoodie. Concerned, I step closer. "Are you okay?"

He leans against the wall and nods, but he's shivering like a leaf. I think he might just be cold from the rain, but then lightning strikes, and when he tenses, I know.

"Jordan," I say, touching his arm, "have you got Astraphobia?"

His eyes flit to mine, pale and unsteady. His hands start to shake, so he clenches them by his sides. The sound of thunder rolls again, starting off as a slow, low growl before morphing into a roar. A second or two passes, and he finally nods.

Growing up on an island, you learn about people with phobias of thunderstorms–real phobias, not like little old me being afraid of the rain–but I've never actually met one in real life; I have no idea what to do.

Jordan wipes his face with the towel, then lowers it again. When he does, he looks nauseous. "I can't breathe, Evvy."

I glance at his chest, watching it rise and fall in short, heavy bursts. I don't know what I'm doing, but I jump into action, holding down both of his arms like a weight. "Hey," I say, forcing him to look at me. "You're fine. Just take a deep breath and take off your hoodie."

He does as he's told, peeling off the wet garment before dropping it by our feet. His arms and t-shirt are sheened in water, and now that his hoodie is off, I see just how erratically he's breathing.

"Take another deep breath." I reach out, placing two fingers on the side of his neck to get a feel for his heartbeat. It races against my fingers, a quick pitter-patter that skips every other beat. I don't know anything about phobias or panic attacks, but while I don't think he's in danger, I am terrified.

I place both hands on his chest, getting him to breathe with me: in and out, in and out, until his chest starts to slow. His eyes are closed, his lashes fluttering in quick, soft sweeps.

"Good," I say. "You're doing great. Now talk to me about something." I keep my hands steady, pushing them against him like a weight. They rise and fall with his slow and steady breathing, keeping him grounded. "What's your favorite meal?" Thunder vibrates like drumming outside, and he flinches beneath my hands. "Hey," I say when his breathing gets harder. "Tell me."

He stiffens beneath me. "I don't know–pizza."

I nod and say, "Good choice. Not the best, but not bad. Mine is Pecan ice cream."

He finally opens his eyes to look at me, which are bright and intense. "That's not a meal, that's a dessert."

"Same thing," I say, resting a hand over his heart. It's starting to slow, but the next crash of thunder could send it up again. "Keep breathing for me."

He takes in a long drawn-out breath, watching me as he does it. It feels strangely intimate, so I look at my hands as they press on his chest, studying the scars on my fingers. Growing up, I loved helping my dad prepare meals, but my impatience always meant that I'd cut things too fast, snagging my skin.

"You know, my mom used to work here," I say. This is the first time I have talked about my mom out loud in ages; I can't believe it's to him. "She'd bring my sister and me here when the place was closed so that we'd have it all to ourselves. Then she'd serve us her special sundaes. I guess it just reminds me of her."

His eyes darken, but he nods as though he understands; maybe he does. "Every Sunday, my dad would take me to this Italian pizza joint at the end of our street," he says, "like a father and son bonding thing. Pizza reminds me of him, too."

I'm about to speak, but lightning crackles through my words. Jordan jerks beneath me, undoing all my hard work. He closes his eyes, looking like he's on the verge of a panic attack, so I try a different tactic.

"So, when's your next cafe viewing?" I say. "I can't wait to sabotage it."

His eyes flick open. They burn at me like bright, angry beacons; my plan is working. "You're insane," he says, "you know that? Like, an actual crazy person."

This is the problem with good-looking boys: they think they can go around saying whatever they want. "I'm insane?"

He steps closer, but I don't move my hands from his chest. "I've done nothing to you, but you keep trying to sabotage me like some spoilt little princess."

I scowl at this. My plan to distract him with anger has backfired; now I'm angry. "I am not spoilt."

He smirks. "But you admit you're a princess?"

I growl and push on his chest in frustration, but he doesn't move an inch – it's like he's made out of concrete. "You know, I have never met anybody so annoying before, and that's saying something considering I live on an island full of tourists."

Jordan grabs my forearms, and I think he's about to yank me off his chest, but he doesn't. Instead, he just keeps them there, his touch sending jolts through my skin. "And I've never met someone so entitled and immature," he says, a growl to his voice. "Something doesn't go your way, so you stomp around and come up with these ridiculous plots like some crazy person."

"Call me crazy one more time."

His eyes turn hooded, and he lowers his head so that his lips are near mine. My heart does a jump, and for the tiniest second, I wonder what it would feel like to kiss them.

Jordan looks me dead in the eye. "Cray-zy."

Outside, the lightning has stopped, but rain still pelts the windows. I glance back at Jordan. His breathing is steady, almost back to normal, and now this feels awkward. "It worked, didn't it?" I say. "You haven't even noticed the storm is clearing up. You're welcome, by the way."

I think I've surprised him. He glances at the window, listening out for that familiar low rumble, but it's gone. I turn away, about to grab the keys to unlock, but in one quick motion, he wraps a hand around my wrist and pulls me toward him. He doesn't stop pulling until I'm close to his chest. Until there's no more room left between us. His eyes find mine, dark and deliberating, like he's thinking of kissing me.

The next thing I know, he is.

❤️