Tropical Storms, Tropical Heat

Miguel pushed the Porsche harder than he should have.

The rare straightaway opened before him like an invitation—smooth asphalt cutting through dense green walls, the kind of stretch that existed only in fragments along this highway. He took it without hesitation. The engine responded instantly, a low, controlled growl that vibrated through the steering wheel and into his chest.

San José was already behind him.

So were the meetings, the heat trapped between concrete buildings, the questions he hadn’t answered—and the ones he hadn’t dared to ask himself.

The speed steadied him. It always did.

On either side of the road, the rainforest blurred into streaks of dark emerald and shadow. Moisture clung to the air, fine and invisible, settling on the windshield despite the absence of rain. Ahead, the sky darkened in layers—steel gray folding into deeper blue—as if the mountains themselves were drawing a line he was about to cross.

Monteverde waited for him beyond the climb.

His plantation home sat high enough that clouds sometimes slipped through the trees like uninvited guests, leaving everything damp, cool, and quiet. It was a place built for distance—for privacy. For control. He had chosen it for exactly those reasons.

Miguel loosened his grip on the wheel as the straightaway began to narrow, the road bending once more into curves and elevation. He eased off the accelerator, instinct replacing impulse. The Porsche purred, obedient.

He exhaled slowly.

The drive was supposed to be familiar. Predictable. Yet tonight, something felt unsettled—like the moment before a storm breaks, when the air turns heavy and sound carries too far. He glanced at the sky again, at the way clouds gathered low over the hills, thick with promise.

By the time he reached Monteverde, rain would come. It always did.

And with it, he sensed, something else—something that would not be so easily controlled.

———-

Bobby had stopped feeling her feet an hour ago.

The flimsy sandals had rubbed her skin raw, each step now a dull burn that pulsed up her calves. She kept walking anyway, because stopping meant thinking—and thinking meant replaying the moment she’d fled the house just before dawn.

The quiet knock.

The door opening.

The weight of realization when she understood he wasn’t lost—he was deliberate.

That had been the final fracture in a year of swallowed anger, forced smiles, and locked doors. She hadn’t packed properly. She hadn’t planned. She’d grabbed her backpack, shoved in a toothbrush, a change of underwear, her passport, and left before fear could turn into paralysis.

Now the highway stretched endlessly ahead of her, slick with humidity, the sky bruising darker by the minute. Rain was coming. She could smell it—sharp and metallic in the air.

She pulled her thin white dress closer around her legs as the wind picked up, long blonde hair clinging to her damp neck. Her shoulders ached beneath the straps of her backpack. Every passing car sent a wave of hot air and grit at her, but none slowed.

Then the Porsche came.

It flew past her with a roar—too fast, too close. The force of it snapped her dress against her thighs and whipped her hair violently across her face. She stumbled, coughing as dust and exhaust burned her lungs, bent over with her hands braced on her knees as the world spun.

She barely heard the screech of brakes.

Miguel reacted before he fully understood what he’d seen.

The shape at the edge of the road—too slight, too human to ignore—cut through his concentration like a blade. His foot slammed down, tires protesting as the Porsche decelerated hard. He reversed without hesitation, engine snarling, eyes fixed on the figure doubled over on the shoulder.

He stopped beside her, hazard lights flashing.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Bobby straightened slowly, coughing again, hair plastered to her face. She brushed it back with shaking fingers, blinking against the sudden silence.

The man in the car had already stepped out.

He was tall, dark-haired, his presence immediate even before he spoke. His expression was tight—not anger, but something sharper. Concern edged with guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low, controlled. “I didn’t see you until it was too late. Are you hurt?”

She shook her head automatically, though her feet screamed in protest. Up close, she noticed the fine sheen of moisture on his skin, the intensity of his gaze—dark eyes assessing without intruding.

“I—I’m fine,” she lied. Her throat felt raw. “Just startled.”

Miguel glanced at her feet, at the sandals barely holding together, at the road stretching behind her with no shelter in sight. Thunder murmured distantly, a warning.

“You’re walking alone,” he said, more statement than question.

She hesitated. Pride flared, then faltered. Exhaustion won.

“Yes.”

Rain began to fall in soft, tentative drops.

Miguel exhaled, once. “You can’t stay out here,” he said. “Not with the storm coming.”

Their eyes met then—hers wary but steady, his unreadable, intent. Neither of them knew it yet, but the road behind them had already closed.