Ana gives me a long look. “Then maybe it’s worth seeing if he wants to show up in person.”
I glance down at my phone. His last message still sits there, teasing and warm.
Fireboy:Hazel says if I don’t bring her the good kibble soon, she’s calling PETA. Also—good morning, Red
I haven’t answered yet. Mostly because I don’t trust myself not to get a little sappy after how he was last night. But also because the thought of suggesting a meetup makes me stir with something dangerously close to hope.
“He might say no,” I say softly.
“Then he’s an idiot,” Everett replies with no hesitation. “But at least then you’ll know.”
Ana nods. “Better to know than keep wondering, Frankie.”
I blow out a breath. “Fine. But if this ends in disaster, I’m blaming both of you.”
Everett grins. “You can name your first child after me as compensation.”
“I’m not having kids.”
“Perfect, then we’re even.”
***
By the time I get home, I’m frozen from the knees down and dangerously close to committing a murder-by-office-Christmas-spirit. I peel off my layers, shuffle into sweats, and sink into the couch with my phone.
His message is already waiting.
Fireboy:Hazel is giving me side-eye from my own damn bed
Me:She needs your bed. It’s the only thing shielding her from the trauma of being forced to eat subpar kibble.
Fireboy:Excuse you. That kibble costs more than my car insurance, can’t fault her for standards.
Me:I love her.
Fireboy:She’s terrible. You’d get along.
I smile and tuck myself further into the corner of the couch, blanket up to my chin. Something about this feels easy, like we’re on the same page and breathing the same air, even if we’re miles apart.
Fireboy:What’s your status, Red?
Me:Blanket cocoon. You?
Fireboy:Showered, in sweats. Just missing one thing.
Me:What’s that?
Fireboy:Your pretty voice coming in my ear
A quiet exhale escapes me. My heart bumps against my ribs, already knowing exactly where this is going.
Me:And how would you do that?
His voice note comes through almost instantly, and I press play with a shaky thumb.
“If I were there right now,” he says, voice gravelly, “I’d tug your clothes off you slowly, just to see what’s underneath. Slide your knees apart and kiss the inside of your thighs ‘til you beg me to stop. Then I’d tell you to be patient—because I’m hungry, and plan on taking my time.”
I squeeze my legs together, heat blooming fast and sharp. My fingers tremble as I open the voice recorder, but when I try to speak, the words catch. Something feels different tonight. Not wrong, just different. So instead of recording, I type.
