Savannah’s lips twitch. “If you all want to imagine I had a secret identity, I won’t stop you. But I’m not sure firefighter qualifies as mysterious.”
“Only if it’s Ramirez’s brand,” Ash grumbles. “Broods more than a wolf in a romance novel.”
I choke on my water. “What the hell does that mean?”
Torres claps me on the back. “Means you’re intense, Captain Angst.”
“Shut up, Torres.”
Savannah laughs again—light, delighted, too pretty for this ugly metal kitchen—and something in my chest loosens at the sound. It feels like drinking warm whiskey after being cold too long.
Then she smirks at Torres.
And that loosened thing in my chest?
It twists.
Not because she’s laughing. But because she’s laughing at him.
Not me.
Instinct hits fast and hard, the kind you can’t control. My hand tightens on my fork. The metal squeals as it bends another fraction of an inch.
Torres sees it. Everyone sees it.
Cole whistles low. “Easy, big guy. The cutlery didn’t hit on your girl.”
Heat spikes through me so fast I swear the temperature rises ten degrees.
Savannah freezes, eyes wide.
The table goes silent.
“My what?” I manage, voice low, dangerous.
“Oh come on,” Torres says through a mouthful of garlic bread. “You’ve barely blinked since she walked in.”
“Not true,” Ash mutters. “He blinked, once. When she said ‘pass the salt.’”
Laughter erupts around the table.
Savannah’s face flushes a deep, telltale pink.
I should say something to shut it down.
Something calm. Reasonable.
What comes out is neither.
“She’s not—” I start, but my voice cracks more than I intend. I clear my throat. “She’s not my girl.”
Her eyes snap to mine.
For a second, there’s something like disappointment in them.
Or maybe I’m imagining it. Hope is a dangerous thing, and I’ve lived without it for a long damn time.
But then Torres grins at her. Big. Stupid. Too charming.
