Gentle.
Firm.
“I know exactly what you want.”
My heart slams.
“Let go,” I say.
He does. Immediately.
That somehow makes it worse.
We stand there, breathing too hard, pretending the storm is louder than the things we’re not saying.
I sigh. “Dax?”
“Yeah.”
“You ever wish you’d gone for what you wanted instead of waiting?”
His eyes meet mine.
Dark.
Honest.
“Every damn day.”
The lights blink.
The storm rages.
But somehow, my heart rages even louder.
Chapter 7
Dax
Decorating the firehouse was a mistake.
I know that the second Rory bends over the box of Valentine’s junk like it personally offended her, red curls slipping loose from her ponytail, hips swaying as she mutters about “municipal-grade tinsel” under her breath.
I grab the ladder. “You’re not climbing that again.”
She straightens, eyes flashing. “Excuse you?”
“I’m not catching you twice in one week.”
Her mouth curves. Dangerous. “You don’t want to catch me a third time?”
I don’t answer that.
I set the ladder anyway, steadying it with one hand while she climbs. She moves like she owns the space, like she always does—confident, capable, pretending she doesn’t notice the way my eyes track every inch of her.
Pink heart lights blink on as she plugs them in, casting a soft glow that doesn’t belong anywhere near a firehouse.
Or near her.
