“You good?” I ask, voice low, steady, like I’m not holding her like she’s the answer to every question I’ve ever avoided.
Her fingers flex against my jacket. “Yeah. I—yeah.”
She doesn’t pull away either.
That’s the dangerous part.
I ease her back, just enough to look at her face, just enough to pretend this is normal. “You trying to give the town a show before Valentine’s even hits?”
Her lips part. She swallows. “Maybe I like living on the edge.”
“Funny,” I say. “I was going to say reckless.”
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks are pink. “You always say that.”
“Because you always are.”
She steps back then, finally breaking contact, the space does nothing to calm the heat coiling low in my gut. She straightens her sweater like it’s misbehaved, then looks at me again—challenging, curious.
“You’re staring again.”
“Not denying it,” I say easily.
Her brows lift. “Oh?”
I shrug. “You’re hard to miss.”
Silence stretches, thick and electric. Something unspoken hums between us, louder than the espresso machine.
She clears her throat. “Coffee?”
“For the whole house,” I say. “You know the order.”
She turns toward the counter, but not before I catch the smile she tries to hide. “You’re predictable.”
“And you like it,” I say.
She laughs softly. “Maybe.”
I lean against the bar while she works, watching the way she moves—confident, practiced, like this place is an extension of her. She belongs here. She belongs everywhere.
The thought hits harder than it should.
She slides my cup across first. “On the house.”
I push it back toward her. “Don’t start.”
She arches a brow. “Consider it my Valentine’s gift. Don’t say I never got you anything.”
“That’s bad for business. And a terrible reason.”
“It isn’t when your best customer looks like he hasn’t slept.”
“Firehouse shifts,” I say.
“Is that all?” she asks lightly.
I freeze.
