Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 19364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 97(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 97(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
My heart slams.
“Let go,” I say.
He does. Immediately.
That somehow makes it worse.
We stand there, breathing too hard, pretending the storm is louder than the things we’re not saying.
I sigh. “Dax?”
“Yeah.”
“You ever wish you’d gone for what you wanted instead of waiting?”
His eyes meet mine.
Dark.
Honest.
“Every damn day.”
The lights blink.
The storm rages.
But somehow, my heart rages even louder.
Chapter 7
Dax
Decorating the firehouse was a mistake.
I know that the second Rory bends over the box of Valentine’s junk like it personally offended her, red curls slipping loose from her ponytail, hips swaying as she mutters about “municipal-grade tinsel” under her breath.
I grab the ladder. “You’re not climbing that again.”
She straightens, eyes flashing. “Excuse you?”
“I’m not catching you twice in one week.”
Her mouth curves. Dangerous. “You don’t want to catch me a third time?”
I don’t answer that.
I set the ladder anyway, steadying it with one hand while she climbs. She moves like she owns the space, like she always does—confident, capable, pretending she doesn’t notice the way my eyes track every inch of her.
Pink heart lights blink on as she plugs them in, casting a soft glow that doesn’t belong anywhere near a firehouse.
Or near her.
“Hold this,” she says, tossing the strand down.
I grab it. The cord jerks.
She yelps as the lights snag around her wrist, then her elbow, then her waist.
“Dax,” she laughs. “I’m under attack.”
I step closer. Too close.
The lights blink faster, framing her like she’s wrapped in heat instead of plastic.
“Stay still,” I murmur.
Her smile falters just a little.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Then stop tangling yourself up.”
She lifts her chin. “You’re the one who brought these.”
I reach for the knot at her wrist. My fingers brush her skin. Warm. Familiar. A mistake.
She inhales sharply.
I feel it.
Every damn time.
I work slowly, deliberately, unwrapping the cord like I’m unwrapping her patience. My knuckles skim her forearm, then her side.
She doesn’t move.
Doesn’t tell me to stop.
The air shifts. Thickens.
She scoffs. “I look like a human Christmas decoration.”
“You look like mine.”
Silence slams down between us.
Her jaw tightens. “You don’t get to say things like that.”
I step closer. Close enough to feel the heat coming off her.
“Why?” I ask. “Because it makes you uncomfortable?”
“Because you’re making this harder,” she snaps.
“Harder than what?” I fire back. “Pretending nothing’s been building between us for years?”
Her eyes flash. “This is not about you.”
I laugh once, sharp. “Everything between us is about me and you.”
She yanks at the lights. They tangle tighter.
“See?” she says. “This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let myself believe in any of it.”
I freeze.
“Any of what?”
She hesitates. Just a beat too long.
“Nothing.”
I don’t let it go.
“You don’t get to say nothing when your hands are shaking.”
She glares. “You don’t get to notice that.”
I reach up, fingers wrapping around her wrist, stopping the movement. Gentle. Firm.
“I get to notice everything,” I say. “I’ve been noticing you since we were sixteen.”
Her breath stutters.
“Let go.”
I don’t.
“Tell me what you want,” I say quietly.
Her voice drops. “I want you to stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to take something that isn’t yours.”
I step even closer.
“There’s nothing about you I haven’t wanted for years,” I say. “That doesn’t mean I’d ever take it without you asking.”
Her throat works.
“Dax…”
“That’s not a no.”
She yanks her wrist free. “This is why I didn’t want to decorate with you.”
“Because you can’t lie to yourself when I’m this close?”
She flinches.
“That’s not fair,” she whispers.
I soften just enough not to break her. “Neither is pretending you don’t feel this.”
She shakes her head, eyes shining. “You don’t know what I feel.”
“I know you don’t want to be alone tonight.”
The words hit harder than I mean them to.
She looks away. “That’s not your problem.”
“It’s always been my problem.”
I reach up, carefully unwinding the last of the lights from her waist. My fingers linger at her hip. On purpose.
“Because you’re my best friend,” I add quietly. “And because I want you.”
She laughs weakly. “You have a funny way of showing it.”
“I stay,” I say simply. “I always stay.”
She looks at me then, really looks.
“That doesn’t mean you get to decide things for me.”
“I’m not deciding,” I say. “I’m offering.”
The lights finally fall free, pooling at our feet.
Neither of us moves.
The storm howls outside like it knows something’s about to snap.
“You should step back,” she says.
I don’t.
“You should tell me to.”
She doesn’t.
Instead, she whispers, “You’re going to ruin me.”
I smile slow and dangerous. “I’d do it gently.”
Chapter 8
Rory
Itell myself I’m fine.
I’ve told myself that all night—while the snow pounds the windows, while the firehouse hums with generators and low voices, while Valentine’s decorations blink like they’re mocking me.
Fine is a lie.
I sit on the edge of the long wooden table in the common room, boots kicked off, socked feet tucked beneath me. I’ve got a mug of cocoa I haven’t touched and a heart-shaped cookie someone left behind that I keep breaking in half without realizing it.