The wind howls outside. The station creaks under it.
I have to physically clench my hands to stop myself from reaching for her.
She turns to me. “Guess my Valentine got snowed in.”
“Probably,” I say too quickly.
She scoffs. “You’re a terrible liar, Dax.”
I smirk despite myself. “You’re a terrible optimist.”
Her eyes narrow. “Says the man who shows up at my café every morning like clockwork.”
I shrug. “Routine keeps me alive.”
She leans closer. Too close.
The air changes.
“I don’t know why I thought tonight would be different,” she says quietly.
Something in my chest cracks.
“Red,” I murmur. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Her laugh is soft. Sad. “I wrote a year’s worth of letters to a ghost.”
I swallow hard.
“You wrote them to someone who cared,” I say.
She tilts her head. “How do you know?”
Because it was me.
Because every letter was my truth without armor.
I don’t say that.
Instead, I say, “Because no one writes like that unless they mean it.”
She studies me, suspicious and searching.
Then the lights flicker.
The power cuts and the tv flickers off. The few guys that were lingering around the bay move down the hallway toward the kitchen and bunk rooms.
Emergency generators kick in, bathing the bay in dim red light.
Romantic as hell.
Dangerous as sin.
“Guess I’m officially stuck for the night.”
“With me,” I add.
Her lips twitch. “Lucky me.”
