He studies me. Really studies me, like he’s cataloging every shake in my voice, every breath I’m trying to hide.
“Stay,” he says softly.
Not a demand. Not a plea.
Just truth.
“I can’t,” I whisper, backing away another step. “You should read it alone.”
He swings his legs over the side of the bunk, boots hitting the floor, body unfolding to full height. He’s only a foot from me now, the air between us thick enough to choke on.
“Savannah.” My name is a growl. A warning. A prayer. “What did you write?”
I swallow. “Everything I’ve been afraid to say.”
The muscle in his jaw flexes.
“Then don’t run.”
His hand lifts like he’s going to touch me—but he stops an inch from my cheek, trembling with restraint. His control is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, infuriating and addictive all at once.
I step back because I have to. Because if he touches me right now I’ll shatter into flame.
“I’ll be outside,” I whisper. “Just… read it.”
He doesn’t breathe as I turn.
I don’t breathe until I’m past the bay doors and into the cold night air. Snowflakes spill from the sky like tiny silent sparks, coating the rigs, the asphalt, the world.
And I wait.
Hands in my pockets, heart in my throat.
Minutes pass.
Five. Ten. Maybe more.
Then the firehouse door opens with a low, heavy groan.
Axel steps out. No coat. No gloves. Just a long-sleeve shirt stretched across his chest and that letter crushed in his fist like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
His eyes find mine instantly.
And God help me—they burn.
He walks toward me with purpose, boots crunching through the new snow, breath fogging. There’s nothing calm or cautious left in him now.
He stops inches away.
“Savannah,” he says hoarsely. “I?—”
His voice breaks.
He swallows hard and tries again.
“You wrote… that I’m home?”
My chest squeezes painfully. “Yes.”
