“You want more tea?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“You should–it’ll help you sleep.”
Bossy.
I arch a brow. “Is that a firefighter order?”
He grins. “It’s a Dax suggestion.”
“Those are rarely optional.”
He steps closer, looming just enough to make my pulse skip. “You’ve never complained before.”
I scoff. “I complain constantly.”
“About everything except me.” His grin widens.
The air shifts.
I stare at him. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, unapologetic. “You’re grumpy with everyone. Except me.”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Damn him.
He’s right. He noticed. The truth is I look forward to seeing him every morning, the way he saunters, effortlessly stealing the air from my lungs.
I stand, smoothing my dress like that will give me back some control. “Congratulations. You cracked the code.”
“Not trying to,” he says quietly. “Just noticing.”
I cross my arms. “Well, stop.”
He doesn’t.
Instead, he says, “You want to decorate?”
I blink. “What?”
“The guys left out Valentine’s stuff,” he says, nodding toward a box of red streamers and heart lights. “Might as well use it.”
“You’re serious.”
“I always am.”
That’s not true, and he knows it.
We string lights around the common room, tension buzzing louder than the storm outside. He hands me tape. I hand him clips. Our fingers brush more than necessary.
On purpose.
“Careful,” he murmurs when I step on a chair. “You fall again, I’m charging hazard pay.”
