Of course.
Devil’s Peak never does romance without chaos.
“Well,” I say, suddenly breathless, “wish me luck.”
He nods once. “Good luck, Red.”
The words land heavier than they should.
I hesitate, fingers curling around my purse strap. “You okay?”
He smiles, but it’s tight around the edges. “Always.”
I don’t believe him.
But I also don’t push.
Because pushing Dax has never been easy.
“I’ve never said this, but thanks for the coffee orders,” I say instead.
He shrugs. “Habit.”
“Careful,” I tease. “People might think you’re sweet.”
He leans in just enough that his voice drops. “Only with you.”
Heat flashes between us—sharp, uninvited, undeniable.
I step back first.
Because if I don’t, I might do something reckless. Like kiss my best friend. Like blow up everything.
“I should go,” I say.
He opens the door for me, letting the cold air rush in. Snowflakes drift lazily, catching in his hair.
“Text me if you need a ride,” he says.
“Dax—”
“I mean it,” he cuts in, voice low. “Storm or no storm.”
I nod, throat tight. “Okay.”
We stand there a second too long.
Then I walk away before I can look back.
The Devil’s Brew is warm and loud and packed with couples who look so sure of each other it makes my chest ache.
I take a table near the window, order a drink I don’t need, and check my phone.
Everyone here is paired up. No single men with lingering gazes like they’re waiting for someone.
I tell myself he’s just late.
The bartender lights another candle. Someone laughs too loud. Snow starts to fall harder.
