“So Savannah,” he says, leaning forward, “if you ever want a tour of Devil’s Peak?—”
“Torres,” I growl.
His smile widens. “—a real tour, not a firefighting one?—”
“Torres.”
“—I’d be honored to?—”
I slam my fork down so hard it echoes off the table like a gunshot.
Everyone goes silent. Even the overhead fan seems to pause.
Savannah’s gaze cuts to me. Slow. Intense.
A spark lights behind her eyes, something dark and hot and dangerously curious.
I look away. I have to. Because if I don’t, I’ll drag her into my lap in front of half the station, and that’s not who I am anymore.
That boy died in a fire ten years ago.
But I’m not sure what’s left.
Not when it comes to her.
“I’m going to… get more bread,” I mutter, pushing up from the table.
I don’t need the bread.
I need a second to breathe.
Unfortunately, the universe has a talent for kicking me in the teeth.
Savannah stands too.
Our eyes lock.
And everything inside me stutters violently.
She steps closer. Just enough to brush against my awareness—light, barely-there pressure, but it’s like being hit with a live current.
“Axel?” she says softly.
God. Her voice still wrecks me.
“You okay?” she asks.
I’m not.
Not even close.
But I nod. “Fine.”
“Your fork disagrees.”
I follow her gaze to the table. The fork looks like I tried to make modern art out of it.
I exhale slowly. “I’ll buy a new one.”
