Chapter 1
Dax
Istart every morning the same way.
Same alarm. Same boots. Same drive through Devil’s Peak while the sky is still bruised with dawn and the mountain smells like pine and cold. Same stop at The Devil’s Bean, because the firehouse coffee tastes like shit and because Rory Sullivan smiles at me like she’s glad I exist.
That’s the real reason.
I tell the guys I’m loyal to caffeine. Truth is, I’ve been loyal tohersince high school—since she was all freckles and opinions and a red ponytail that snapped when she laughed. Long before she owned the café. Long before the town decided we were inevitable. Long before I learned how dangerous wanting her really was.
I push through the door, the bell chiming overhead, warmth and roasted coffee beans hitting me in the chest. The place is already alive—soft music, the hiss of steam, Valentine’s decorations creeping in like a pink invasion.
And Rory—she’s perched precariously on a ladder.
Pink heart lights spill around her like she’s tangled in them on purpose, one knee bent, red paint-stained Converse braced against a rung. She’s wearing one of her oversized sweaters,sleeves shoved up, red hair twisted into a messy knot that’s half falling apart.
She looks… unreal.
I stop walking without meaning to.
She glances down, catches me staring, and her mouth curves slow and knowing. “You’re going to trip if you keep gawking like that, Hayes.”
“Bold of you to assume I’m moving,” I say.
She snorts. “You’re early.”
“Firehouse order.” I rest a hand on the ladder, looking up at her. “You’re crooked.”
“So are you,” she fires back, then shifts to adjust the lights.
The ladder wobbles.
It’s barely a second. Barely anything at all. But my body reacts before my brain catches up.
“Red—”
Her foot slips.
I grab her.
Hard.
My hands lock around her waist, muscle memory and instinct slamming together, and she comes down against me with a sharp inhale, palms landing on my chest. The ladder rattles behind us, forgotten.
She’s warm. Solid. Real.
Her pulse jumps under my thumb where it’s pressed just above her hip, fast and frantic like it’s trying to outrun something. I feel it. She feels that I feel it.
Neither of us moves.
The café fades. The music, the steam, the scent of roasted beans—it all drops away until it’s just her breath against my throat and the way her eyes go wide, then dark.
“Dax,” she says quietly.
I should let go.
I don’t.
