here's about a minute delay before I jerk into action, falling out of the doorway and out into the torrent of rain. Rain pelts my skin as I dart through the yard, over to the gate. It's been ripped off its hinges, which means Jordan and the dog are somewhere on the flooded main street.

My hand goes up to shield my eyes, but it's no use. I'm soaked to the bone, damp hair stuck to my forehead in clumps, unable to see more than a foot or two in front of me. Leaves and bits of fallen debris being thrown by the wind slap my arms and my legs, but I hardly even notice. All I can think about is Jordan.

Rule number one, not that Jordan knows this being a city boy and all, is that you do not run out into the storm. I call out his name, but the gale-force winds make it impossible to hear. When a metal can swept up by the wind appears to head straight for me, I duck.

"Jordan!" I call out, looking down the street, but seeing through the dark is impossible. I turn to look down the other end, but except for fallen trees and debris, there's nothing around. Everyone else has the good sense to stay indoors.

There's not a single house on this street unprepared. The trees have been trimmed back in preparation, the glass windows boarded up with plywood or special shutters. The once lively community is shuttered away, like something from a post-apocalyptic movie, and I am that idiotic character with a death wish.

The rain pounds harder, like lashes of a whip against my face. I pull up my hood, but half a second later, a strong gust of wind rips it back. My heart is racing as I stand here, frozen to the bone, scared. I've experienced many storms in my short eighteen years, but I've never had someone I care about run into one.

"Jordan!" I'm running down the street like a madwoman. Everywhere I look is chaos, bits of debris flying overhead and thwacking the rows of houses. A tree snaps in half right in front of my face, its branches lost to the wind. One of them hurtles toward me and catches the side of my neck before I can duck.

The impact stings, but I barely have time to react. Lightning strikes a tree at the bottom of the street, followed by a crack of thunder. The sound sends vibrations through my chest, all the way down to my feet. There have only been a few times I've been morbid enough to imagine how I'll die, none of which involved being fried in a hurricane.

Shivering, I wrap my arms around my body, despite knowing it won't help. I am drenched right through, and no amount of rubbing my arms is going to warm me up. Still, it's about all I can think to do right now, because there's no way I can head back home and leave Jordan out here alone.

"Jordan!" I scream again, but this time there's defeat in my voice. Hopelessness.

Just like that, I'm there again – the night Mom died. I can see it so clearly, hear every sound of that night. The crunching sound of metal as our car collided with the other, the spinning that followed. The piercing screams of Lexi and me in the back seat, and then the stillness of mom as she breathed in and out, each breath shallower and raspier than the last.

I don't remember much between the crash to us arriving in hospital, but I remember being hopeful as she laid in the hospital bed that she'd pull through. And then she didn't. In less than an hour, I lost my whole world, no warning, no compromising. No begging. One moment she was there, the next she was gone, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

A shiver descends my spine, a cold, empty feeling taking over. There's a lump in my throat, a panic in my chest that builds and grows, threatening to take hold. Then, slowly, someone emerges from the dark. I run toward the hazy figure, ready to hug and kill him at once, but the closer I get, the quicker it dawns on me it's not Jordan emerging from the storm, it's Mr. Roberts, an older man from down the street.

"Mr. Roberts!" I yell, but he can barely hear me through the rain. "Mr. Roberts, are you insane? You need to get inside!" I grab his arms as he stumbles toward me, trying to guide him back to his house, but he pushes me away.

"I can't," he shouts, "my dog escaped. I gotta find him. You get inside, Evvy. It's not safe out here."

"I can't, either!" I shout back. "My boyfriend escaped." His eyebrows fly up, and I add, "Well, he's not my boyfriend. He's – we're – anyway, he ran after your dog."

Even though it's dark, it's easy to see the hope that fills the crevices of his old, withered face. "God bless him," he says, grabbing my arm, and then he pulls me down the rest of the street.

I'm busy shouting for Jordan while he shouts for Woolfie, but it's pointless. Even if Jordan were standing in front of us, it would be hard to hear anything over this wind. I start thinking the worse, like maybe a city boy like Jordan is stupid enough to take cover under a tree, which is the worst thing to do in a storm. Or maybe he's fallen over a branch and he's lying somewhere, injured. Maybe it's my mother all over again. Maybe the last time I saw Jordan was truly the last time, and now he's gone, just like that.

Then, out of nowhere, Jordan comes bounding through the grassy clearing between the houses, soaked to the bone, shivering, carrying something in his arms.

"Woolfie!" Mr. Roberts bellows.

For an old man, he can move pretty quickly. He's suddenly bounding toward Jordan like he's trying out for track, and when he gets there, he pulls Woolfie from Jordan's arms and buries his face in his fur.

Jordan bends over, hands on his knees, and breathes heavily. Tears pool my eyes, and I've never been more grateful to be covered in rain, washing any evidence away. I cross the remaining distance between us.

Just as he straightens up, I grab him by the front of his wet t-shirt, pulling him toward me. "Are you insane?" I thought the moment I saw him alive, uninjured, I'd be filled with this immeasurable joy, but instead, I'm furious. Furious he put his life on the line without a second thought, and furious I nearly lost him.

He grabs my arm, annoyed, and yanks me even closer. "What are you doing out here?"

"What am I doing out here? What do you think I'm doing here? Making sure you don't get yourself killed! What kind of idiot runs into a storm, Jordan?"

He clenches his jaw. "You should have stayed inside."

I'm about a second away from killing him, but then Mr. Roberts looks between us, Woolfie clutched to his chest, the pair of them shaking like leaves. "Come on," he says, his voice sounding faint, "we need to get inside."

With one last glare at Jordan, we jerk into action, helping Mr. Roberts, whose adrenaline has well and truly worn off, back to his house, and then we cross the last of the street back to mine. The wind has died down a little, but the rain is still coming down in sheets. The moment I open the back door, a spray of water follows us inside, and I slam it shut behind us.

For a moment we just stand in the darkened hallway, silent. I can just make out the quick rise and fall of his chest, the ways his muscles are taut and wound tight like he's trying to regain control. He must be even more terrified than me because of his phobia, and even though I hate him for risking his life, a part of me is amazed by his bravery.

"That was stupid," I say. My voice cracks, because I'm on the verge of crying. "Reckless. Do you know how dangerous storms can be? You could have hurt yourself out there. You could have gotten yourself killed. You–"

He takes a step toward me, closing the remaining distance between us. It's so cold that the warmth of his quickening breath makes me shudder. He reaches out, touching my hand, and when I look up, those stormy eyes are on mine.

"I mean it," I snap, pulling away. I'm still thinking about Mom, about how quickly I lost her. About how I could have lost him. "I can't even talk to you right now. That's how mad I am."

Slowly, delicately, as if afraid he'll break me, he pulls me into a hug. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

It's like instinct the way my muscles unwind, and my body molds to his. I shiver because he's cold, wet, but there's a familiar warmth trying to break through his clothes, demanding to be acknowledged.

"We should try and get dry," I say, but I'm so cold that my teeth clatter with every word. He nods and takes my hand, engulfing it in his. A strange ease settles over me, a feeling of being completely safe as he leads me upstairs.

The thunder has stopped, but there's a heavy wind that shakes the shutters as we get to our rooms. With one last look, I tell Jordan I'll be out in a minute and head into my bedroom, closing the door behind me.

My heart is still pounding as I peel off my clothes. Goosebumps break along my skin, but not just because I'm cold. Even though we're safely inside, it still feels like I'm stuck in that storm, searching for Jordan through the torrent of rain, anticipating the moment I'd find him hurt, or worse – just like my mother.

My eyes burn with tears. I push away the thought and grab a towel, twisting the excess water from my hair. It's not long before there's a knock at the door, so I shout, "Just a minute!" and quickly throw on some underwear and an oversized t-shirt. With a deep breath, I turn to the door, heart pounding, and say, "You can come in."

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