I look at him fully, really look, and something inside me twists.
“I never blamed you,” I whisper.
His entire body goes still—as if the world freezes with him.
“What?” His voice cracks more than a little.
I step closer. The distance shrinks to a thin ribbon of cold air. “I never blamed you, Axel. Not then. Not now.”
He shakes his head slowly, like he physically can’t take in the words. “Savannah, that fire started because?—”
“Because of faulty wiring,” I cut in. “Accidents happen. And my father made the choice he made. He saved me. He protected me. That wasn’t you. That was him being… him. You can’t carry that.”
His eyes darken, stormy with pain. “I carried it anyway.”
“I know,” I breathe. “I know.”
Silence snaps tight around us, but this time it’s different. Charged. Magnetic. Pulling us helplessly toward each other.
He takes a slow, tortured breath. “Savannah…”
His voice wraps around my name like a prayer. Or a warning.
Maybe both.
Maybe that’s why I don’t move.
Maybe that’s why neither of us steps back.
The wind kicks up, swirling snow around us. I feel the heat of him, even in the freezing air. My heart stumbles and reorients itself toward him like it never stopped.
He studies my face with an intensity that makes my knees wobble. His eyes flick briefly to my mouth—so quick I wouldn’t have caught it if I weren’t already tracking his every move.
“That night…” he says hoarsely. “I didn’t just lose my house. I lost you. And I’ve spent every day since wondering if anything would’ve been different if I had?—”
“Don’t,” I whisper again. “You were sixteen. We were kids.”
He laughs, but it’s a sound carved from pain. “You weren’t a kid to me.”
My breath catches.
Electricity arcs between us—hot, dangerous, intoxicating.
I can feel the gravity pulling us closer. One step. One inch. One breath and we’ll cross a line we won’t come back from.
I shouldn’t want that.
I shouldn’t want him.
But I do.
God help me, I do.
His voice drops to something devastatingly soft. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“That we shouldn’t be standing this close.”
He gives a low, humorless huff. “We’re not close enough.”
