Try as you might, no actor will ever ball as hard as Emily Bett Rickards. First role out of college as a minor character in a popular show who was supposed to last maybe a few episodes but people liked her sooooooooo much that she became the main character’s main love interest and they had to write her into every episode of the show and make her a series regular.
Summary: After a particularly rough day of chasing storms, Tyler notices how shaken you are. While the rest of the team heads to the hotel, he takes you for a quiet drive to find a quiet place to watch the sunset together.
Warnings: Mention of past trauma related to storms. Destruction due to storms.
Word Count: 2,825
Author's Note: Kaley
Prompt: Watching the Sunset / Sunrise
Pairing: Tyler Owens x Reader
The storm had finally moved on, but it didn’t feel like a victory. The air still smelled of ozone and broken branches, and the last slant of daylight filtered through a haze of dust kicked up by the winds. It settled over the small town like a shroud. Power lines drooped low across the road, and a mangled trampoline sat in the middle of what used to be someone’s yard. The team moved quietly, voices low as they packed the vans and trucks with gear, the usual post chase adrenaline curdled into something heavier.
You tightened the last strap on a case of sensors, the nylon digging into your palm harder than it should’ve. Your hand shook slightly as you pulled it back. Not from exertion. From something else.
A little boy had waved at you earlier through the cracked window of a storm cellar, mud streaked across his cheeks. His mother had been trying not to cry. The roof of their home was gone.
You shook your head and blinked, trying to reset. But the weight of the day was a pressure system all its own—low and thick and impossible to push through.
Across the gravel lot, Tyler slammed the tailgate of his truck shut, then turned. His eyes caught yours for a second. Just a flicker. But it was enough.
He didn’t smile. Just studied you for a beat, his brow furrowed under the cap pulled low over his sage green eyes. You looked away first.
“Alright, that’s a wrap,” Dani called out, breaking the silence. “Hotel’s twenty minutes out. We’ll see you all there.”
Everyone slowly began climbing into their vehicles. You hesitated at the passenger side of Boone’s old van, hand hovering near the handle. The weight of the day began settling in on you.
“Hey.”
You turned to see Tyler standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his worn jeans.
“You alright?” He asked.
You nodded almost automatically. Then you shook your head.
“I don’t know,” you admitted. Your voice was barely above a whisper as you said it.
His gaze didn’t waver. “It was a rough one.”
You nodded again. There wasn’t much else you could say. You and him both knew it was a hard day.
Then he jerked his chin toward his truck. “Let’s get out of here?”
You blinked. “Where?”
He gave the smallest hint of a smile, just the corner of his mouth lifting. “Just a drive.”
For a second, you hesitated. The others were already pulling out of the lot, engines growling softly in the background. The idea of more miles on the road should’ve sounded exhausting. But somehow with Tyler, it didn’t. Maybe it was the steadiness in his voice. Or the promise of some quiet after a very loud day.
You took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay.”
Tyler opened the passenger door for you, then rounded the truck to the driver’s side. As you climbed in, the worn leather seat creaked beneath you. It was warm from sitting under the Oklahoma sun for the past several hours. The faint scent of dust mixed with Tyler’s cologne lingered in the cab.
Tyler turned the key, the engine rumbling to life, before he turned and headed for the highway. The road stretched out ahead, long and mostly empty. The sun was dipping low, casting everything in warm orange light.
Tyler’s truck rumbled steadily along the two lane highway, the familiar hum of the tires a constant rhythm. The radio was on, but barely. Some old country tune playing through the speakers as background noise.
Neither of you had spoken since leaving the gravel lot. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. Just heavy.
You leaned against the window watching the landscape roll by. Soft hills, scattered barns, and silhouettes of trees.
Tyler drummed his thumb once on the steering wheel.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
It wasn’t accusing. Just observant.
You gave a faint shrug without turning to look at him. “Just tired.”
He nodded like he was accepting your answer, but not completely believing you. Tyler glanced over at you.
“You okay?”
You didn’t answer right away. Your first instinct was to give the easy out. I’m fine. Just tired. It’s been a long day. But something about the look on the little kid’s face from earlier, the way his mother had wrapped him in her arms while trying not to cry herself, had settled in your chest.
You opened your mouth, but then closed it again. Tyler didn’t push. Just kept driving. A minute passed. Then another.
Finally you exhaled. “It got me today.”
Tyler’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, but you felt his attention shift to you.
You continued, your voice quiet. “I’ve seen damage before. Hell we’ve watched houses go airborne and entire fields get flattened. But today…I don’t know. That family. That little boy. He waved at me like we had done something amazing.” You blinked, staring out the windshield as you continued to try to organize your thoughts. “But their roof is gone. Their home is destroyed. Half their stuff is gone. And all we could do was hand them some food and water and move on. And we’ll go to the next town or the next chase. But them…they’re going to be affected by this for months. Maybe longer.”
You could feel a rawness creeping into your throat that you didn’t like. You felt too vulnerable. Too out in the open.
“I just…” you rubbed your hands together in your lap. “It made me feel…useless.”
Tyler stayed quiet for a moment, letting the words settle.
“You’re not.”
You turned slightly toward him.
“You’re not useless,” he said again. “We help people. We give them a little bit of hope when it’s really hard to find it. That’s everything when you’ve just lost everything.”
You swallowed. “I know. But it didn’t feel like enough today.”
He gave you a small nod, almost like he knew what you meant.
You looked down at your hands. “It reminded me of my dad, actually. When I was a kid, our house got hit. Just the edge of it, but it ripped through the garage like it was paper. I remember sitting in the hallway with my mom and thinking the whole world was ending. I remember the sound.”
Tyler glanced over. “The sound gets to you, doesn’t it?”
You nodded. “Every time.”
Another quiet beat passed between you.
“I didn’t know that,” he said gently.
“I don’t talk about it much.”
“You don’t have to.” He paused, then added, “But you can. With me.”
You looked over at him. His eyes were still on the road, his posture calm. Not expecting anything. Just offering.
“It’s just me,” he added. “You know that, right?”
There was something grounding in the way he said it. Not dramatic or invasive. Just solid and steady.
Your shoulders loosened slightly. The tension in your jaw you hadn’t noticed faded just a bit.
“I know,” you said softly. “It’s just… easier to push through it most of the time.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Until it isn’t.”
You let out a quiet, almost laugh through your nose. Tyler reached over briefly, his fingers brushing your hand where it rested on your knee. It wasn’t much. Just a second of warmth. But it was enough.
“You don’t have to carry all of that alone, you know.”
You didn’t answer right away. Just looked out the windshield again as the first stars began to peek through the fading light.
Then, finally. “Thanks.”
You sat there in the passenger seat for a beat, watching the road roll out in front of you. Tyler’s fingers were still resting gently against yours. Before you could overthink it, you turned your hand over, and slid your fingers beneath his. Tyler didn’t flinch or even say anything. He just shifted his hand slightly, adjusting so his fingers laced through yours. His thumb brushed once along the side of your hand.
You stared out the windshield at the horizon, heart thudding softly in your chest. It wasn’t from nervousness, but the recognition that this felt like something more.
There had always been something there between you and Tyler. A glance that lasted just a few seconds too long. A shared laugh together when no one else was listening. The way he always insisted you were in his truck with him when you guys were chasing more severe storms.
But neither of you had ever crossed that invisible line into something more.
You tightened your grip on Tyler’s hand slightly, not quite ready to let go. Tyle glanced over at you, and the corners of his mouth curved into the slightest smirk.
You leaned your head back against the seat, hand still in his, and let yourself just breathe.
Half an hour later Tyler turned off the main road onto a gravel path barely visible in the fading light. The truck dipped and bumped along the uneven stretch, tall grass brushing the sides like they were parting just for you. You let go of his hand long enough to brace against the dash as he eased the truck up a gentle slope.
At the top, he cut the engine. The sudden silence wrapped around you like a blanket. No tires on gravel. No radio. No weather reports crackling through a comms unit. Just wind in the grass and the low hum of cicadas waking up for the night.
You pushed open the door and stepped out. As you did, you felt the warm air on your skin, touched with the faintest chill as the sun sank lower. Tyler came around the front of the truck, his boots crunching softly over the gravel.
The view was as perfect as you remembered, an open stretch of rolling land that seemed to go on forever, kissed now by streaks of gold, pink, and lavender. A hawk circled lazily in the distance. The whole sky looked like it had been painted just for this.
Tyler leaned back against the front of the truck, arms folded loosely, gaze turned toward the horizon.
You joined him, close but not quite touching.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The quiet wasn’t awkward. It was reverent.
“I missed this,” you murmured.
“Me too.”
You looked over at him, and he met your eyes for a second before glancing back at the sky. There was something softer in his features now. Something calmer. The kind of look someone wears when they finally let themselves slow down.
“I feel like we haven’t had a second to breathe this season,” you said.
“We haven’t,” he agreed. “Feels like we’ve just been chasing, nonstop. One storm ends, another one’s forming.”
You drew in a breath, then let it go slowly. “I used to think I could outrun it all, you know? The memories. The fear. The pressure. If I just kept moving, kept tracking, I wouldn’t have to sit with it.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then: “And now?”
You shrugged. “Now I think maybe...stillness isn’t so bad.”
He turned his head toward you. “Especially if you’re not in it alone.”
You smiled at that just a little. “You always know how to say the right thing.”
“Nah,” he said, his voice low and warm. “I just say what I mean.”
You let that settle between you. Then you stepped a little closer. Close enough for your arm to brush his. He didn’t move away. Instead, he reached down, slow and easy, and took your hand again.
You watched the last sliver of sun dip below the horizon, the colors bleeding richer now, more vibrant in their final moments. Something about it felt symbolic. The end of a day. The promise of the start of something new that would come soon.
The wind shifted, gentle and warm, rustling through the grass like it was trying to carry the weight of those words somewhere safe.
You looked back out at the horizon. “I’m glad we came here tonight.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
The stars were starting to show now, tiny pinpricks against the deepening blue. You stayed there beside him, your hands still joined, the sky folding into night around you.
For the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe the storm in your mind had finally passed.
The sky deepened around you, stars flickering in slow waves, the last gold of the sun fading from the clouds like a whispered goodbye. Somewhere below the ridge, crickets chirped, steady and rhythmic, like they knew the two of you needed a soundtrack for silence.
Tyler’s thumb moved absently along your knuckles, slow and comforting, like it had a rhythm all its own. He hadn’t let go of your hand, and you hadn’t wanted him to. Not even for a second.
He exhaled beside you, long and quiet. Not frustrated. Not rushed. Just tired.
“You ever feel like you blinked and missed half of it?” he asked suddenly, eyes still trained on the horizon.
You glanced up at him. “Half of what?”
“This season,” he said. “This whole damn year, honestly.”
You let the question hang there for a moment, watching him. He looked older than usual in this light. Not in a worn out way, just…a little more human. The kind of tired that came from running too hard, for too long.
“You’ve been in motion for months,” you said softly.
He nodded. “Haven’t really stopped since March.”
“You never do.”
He gave a quiet laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I used to tell myself I liked the pace. That the chasing was what kept me grounded. But lately...” He trailed off, thumb stalling against your hand. “Lately it’s just felt like running.”
You stayed quiet, giving him room.
“I don’t know,” he said after a beat. “It’s like every time I thought about slowing down, something else came up. Another rotation. Another county warning. Another line forming just west of here. I kept thinking if I could just get through one more storm, I’d breathe.”
You leaned your shoulder gently into his, arm brushing along his in the process. Slowly, without thinking too hard about it, you let go of his hand just long enough to wrap your arm around his. Your fingers hooked into the crook of his elbow, your head coming to rest lightly against his shoulder.
He stilled for a second at the contact. Then he softened.
And something in your chest did too.
“You ever think about stopping?” you asked. “About stepping away from all of it?”
He was quiet for a long moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think I could quit it entirely. There’s something about it. The sky. The chase. The science. That still gets in my blood. But yeah. I think about slowing down.”
You nodded against him.
“Not being the guy everyone calls first. Not having to lead every convoy or talk to every local station. Just... chasing for me. When I want. With people I actually want to be around.”
Your lips quirked slightly. “You saying we don’t make good company?”
He looked down at you, and smiled. “Nah. You’re the exception.”
You looked up at him. “Me?”
He gave a soft shrug. “You’ve always been the exception for me.”
The words hit harder than you expected, not because they were loud or over the top. But because they were true, and you could tell. Tyler never said things unless he meant them. He didn’t dress up his honesty. He just gave it. Plain. Steady. Real.
You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t say anything at all. You just stayed where you were, leaning against him, holding onto his arm like it was the only thing anchoring you to the ground.
He turned his face slightly toward yours. His voice was softer now, rough around the edges.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said.
Your throat tightened. “Me too.”
A breeze stirred across the lookout, cool against your skin but not enough to break the warmth wrapped around the moment.
“I think I forgot how good this feels,” you said. “Just being still. Not thinking about what’s coming next.”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”
He looked out over the fields again, the stars multiplying like sparks scattered across navy velvet.
You let the quiet come back for a while. Not the heavy kind. The good kind. The kind that only existed between people who didn’t need to fill the silence to feel close.
Eventually, Tyler leaned his head slightly toward yours, just enough that you could feel the faint brush of his hair against your temple. You didn’t move away.
You didn’t want to.
And for the first time in what felt like weeks, you weren’t thinking about funnel clouds or pressure systems or evacuation zones.
You always write things so beautifully. I love when I can see it - the scene - like it’s a movie in my head not just words on a page and you nail that every time!
