“Because I want you,” I murmur, “more than is remotely safe. That’s why.”
She gasps—a soft, broken sound that goes straight to my spine.
“Ash…”
“Don’t say my name like that,” I warn.
“Like what?”
“Like you want me to break every rule I have.”
She whispers, “Maybe I do.”
I shut my eyes, breathing hard. “Christ.”
Seconds stretch. Her hand drifts across the bed until her fingers brush mine. A touch so small it shouldn’t matter. It matters. God, it matters.
I flip my hand palm-up. She slides her fingers into mine. It’s nothing. It’s everything.
Her whisper is barely air: “I feel safer with you than I have in a long time.”
That hits deeper than any kiss. The storm rattles the firehouse. The bed creaks. The world narrows to her hand in mine. I shift—just an inch—enough that our knees graze.
Heat floods her face. And then— We stop.
Just breathing. Just holding hands. Just fighting the same war on two different fronts.
Neither of us sleeps. Not even for a minute. And that’s when I finally understand: the storm isn’t outside.
It’s in this bed.
Between us.
Waiting.
Chapter Sixteen
Lucy
The storm passes in the early hours, leaving the whole mountain glittering like someone dumped powdered silver over Devil’s Peak. Sunlight pierces through the firehouse dorm window in sharp, cold beams, catching on frost that’s crept across the glass overnight. It should feel peaceful. It should feel calm.
Instead, my heart is doing something borderline illegal.
Because I’m waking up in Ash Calder’s bed.
Not like that — obviously not like that — but close enough that my entire body remembers every charged second from last night. The mattress dips slightly beside me, and when I blink the sleep from my eyes, I see the broad, tense line of Ash’s back. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, boots half-laced, shoulders knotted tight beneath a black shirt that fits him indecently well.
He looks exhausted. And not from the storm.
From me.
From us.
From whatever the hell is happening between us that neither of us knows how to name.
I shift quietly, but the blanket rustles, and Ash turns his head. His eyes meet mine, and the breath leaves my lungs. Morning light sharpens his features — the sharp jaw, the scruff darkening his cheek, the faint crease between his brows that only appears when he’s fighting something he doesn’t want to say.
“Morning,” he says, voice low and rough from sleep.
