The diner was the only place open for miles. Buzzing fluorescent lights, vinyl booths, coffee that tasted more like metal than actual coffee beans. The kind of place that didn’t ask questions—just poured another refill and left you alone.

You sat across from Aemond at the farthest booth, your recorder off for the first time all day, notebook abandoned on the seat beside you. Your press badge was still clipped to your jacket pocket, though you’d stopped noticing the weight of it hours ago. Your hair was frizzed from humidity, skin tacky from dried sweat and storm dust. You looked like a reporter fresh off the front lines, because you were.

You were there writing a feature—a week embedded with Aemond’s elite storm-chasing unit. A rare behind-the-scenes profile of the enigmatic lead meteorologist known for flirting with the edge of disaster. Your editor had warned you he was a difficult subject. Too quiet, too focused, too private.

He was all of that—and worse. But also smarter than anyone you’d ever interviewed. Precise. Obsessive. And despite yourself, you found your questions changing. Shifting. Sliding from professional into something that felt a little too personal.

He hadn’t stopped you.

Hours in the van. Questions between bursts of wind and sirens. You weren’t just chasing the storm anymore, you were chasing him.

Now it was almost 1 a.m. The remnants of pie crust sat between you. Your pen was dry. And still… you stayed. He didn’t seem surprised by that.

Aemond sat across from you, sleeves pushed to his elbows, a half-empty cup of coffee in front of him, thumb resting against the rim like he was weighing something unspeakably delicate.

You weren’t sure what he saw when he looked at you, but he held your gaze like he was still trying to map it.

Then, suddenly, his voice broke the silence. Low. Even.

“You ask a lot of questions,” he said, watching your mouth instead of your eyes. “Will you let me ask you something?”