I grin. “Careful. You’ll hurt my feelings.”
She folds her arms. “You don’t have feelings.”
“Only for coffee and chaos,” I say. “And you.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.
Her breath hitches.
I step back, palms up. “Sorry. Storm brain. Been a long day.”
She doesn’t call me on it.
Instead, she says, “Where am I sleeping?”
I point toward the bunk room. “There’s a spare.”
“And you?”
“I’ll take the couch.”
She arches a brow. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make yourself uncomfortable so everyone else doesn’t have to.”
I meet her gaze. “That’s literally my job.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t have to be a hero all the time.”
“I’m not,” I say quietly. “Just stubborn.”
The heater hums. Snow pounds the roof.
We stand there, neither moving.
Finally, she says, “You got anything to eat?”
“Firehouse kitchen,” I answer. “It’s not fancy.”
She smiles faintly. “Neither am I.”
We spend the next twenty minutes standing at the counter eating soup from a can. It’s normal. Almost peaceful.
Her knee brushes mine.
Once.
Twice.
Neither of us moves away.
“You nervous?” she asks softly.
“Always,” I admit.
