Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
I flip my hand palm-up. She slides her fingers into mine. It’s nothing. It’s everything.
Her whisper is barely air: “I feel safer with you than I have in a long time.”
That hits deeper than any kiss. The storm rattles the firehouse. The bed creaks. The world narrows to her hand in mine. I shift—just an inch—enough that our knees graze.
Heat floods her face. And then— We stop.
Just breathing. Just holding hands. Just fighting the same war on two different fronts.
Neither of us sleeps. Not even for a minute. And that’s when I finally understand: the storm isn’t outside.
It’s in this bed.
Between us.
Waiting.
Chapter Sixteen
Lucy
The storm passes in the early hours, leaving the whole mountain glittering like someone dumped powdered silver over Devil’s Peak. Sunlight pierces through the firehouse dorm window in sharp, cold beams, catching on frost that’s crept across the glass overnight. It should feel peaceful. It should feel calm.
Instead, my heart is doing something borderline illegal.
Because I’m waking up in Ash Calder’s bed.
Not like that — obviously not like that — but close enough that my entire body remembers every charged second from last night. The mattress dips slightly beside me, and when I blink the sleep from my eyes, I see the broad, tense line of Ash’s back. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, boots half-laced, shoulders knotted tight beneath a black shirt that fits him indecently well.
He looks exhausted. And not from the storm.
From me.
From us.
From whatever the hell is happening between us that neither of us knows how to name.
I shift quietly, but the blanket rustles, and Ash turns his head. His eyes meet mine, and the breath leaves my lungs. Morning light sharpens his features — the sharp jaw, the scruff darkening his cheek, the faint crease between his brows that only appears when he’s fighting something he doesn’t want to say.
“Morning,” he says, voice low and rough from sleep.
Heat shoots straight through me. “Hey.”
Brilliant. I sound like someone who’s never spoken to a man before.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn't tease. He just studies me with an intensity that makes me want to crawl under the mattress and hide forever. Or crawl into his lap and forget entirely how to breathe. There is no in-between.
“You sleep?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“Me either.”
He says it quietly, like an admission he didn’t plan on giving. My pulse stutters. He stands and finishes lacing his boots, shoulders shifting beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, muscles flexing. He glances toward the window where sunlight bounces off fresh snowbanks.
“Roads are clear,” he says. “Plows came through at dawn. Power company says the grid should be back up.”
Right. Time to leave.
Time to go back to my little cabin. Back to my quiet life. Back to pretending last night didn’t happen — the darkness, the almost-touching, the warmth of his body next to mine, the way his hand closed around mine like he wasn’t letting go unless someone physically pried him off.
I sit up slowly. “That’s good. I should probably head home, then.”
He nods once, but it’s too sharp, too clipped. Not the casual agreement of a man who wants you gone. The controlled retreat of a man trying not to show exactly how much it bothers him.
“You can,” he says. His tone is even, but his jaw flexes. “If you want to.”
If you want to.
Not if you should. Not if you need to.
If you want to.
I swallow, throat tight. “Right. I mean… it was really nice of you to let me stay here last night.”
“Wasn’t a problem.”
“You let me take your bed.”
“You refused to take it.”
“You growled.”
“You smirked.”
Heat flashes across my cheeks. “That’s not the point.”
He finally turns fully toward me, leaning back against the dresser with arms crossed over his chest. He looks too big for the small room, too powerful, too present, like he’s taking up not just space but air.
“What is the point, Lucy?” he asks.
“That I… I don’t want to be a bother.”
“You weren’t.”
“And I don’t want to overstay.”
“You didn’t.”
“And I don’t want you to feel obligated to—”
“I don’t.”
His voice snaps across the room like a live wire.
My breath catches. His expression softens by half a degree as he drags a hand down his face, like he’s annoyed at himself for letting anything slip.
“Look,” he says quieter, “I’m not trying to tell you what to do.”
“Really? Since when?”
The corner of his mouth twitches — not a smile, but the ghost of one. “Since right now.”
“Oh. A new leaf,” I tease.
“Don’t push it.”
I push it anyway. “Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation.”
“I didn’t sleep because someone kept breathing next to me.”
I blink. “You’re blaming me for your breathing?”
“I’m blaming you for how loud your breathing was.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Doesn’t have to.”
The heat in his eyes makes it impossible to look at him too long. I glance toward the window again, where the storm’s aftermath sparkles beneath the rising sun.