“Talk to me, Red.”
I exhale hard. “I am talking.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m coping.”
He arches a brow. “Since when?”
I finally look at him, annoyed despite myself. “Since always.”
His mouth curves, but there’s tension under it. He’s been wound tight since earlier, since the lights, since whatever cracked between us the moment this snowstorm hit the town.
Good. Let him be uncomfortable too.
I gesture with the cookie. “You know what the worst part is?”
He waits.
“The letters didn’t just make me feel… wanted,” I say. “They made me feel brave.”
That gets his attention.
“They made me feel like I wasn’t ridiculous for wanting more,” I continue. “Like I didn’t have to apologize for dreaming. For hoping.”
His jaw tightens.
I don’t stop.
“He saw me. Really saw me. The parts I don’t show customers. Or the town. Or even you.”
The words slip out sharper than intended.
Dax doesn’t interrupt. He never does when I’m like this. He just listens, eyes dark, hands flexing around the back of the chair.
“It wasn’t just flirting,” I say quietly. “It was… care. Thoughtfulness. He remembered things. Asked questions. He made me feel cherished.”
My throat tightens.
“Like a real prince charming,” I add, forcing a laugh. “Stupid, right?”
Dax exhales slowly.
“No.”
I blink. “No?”
“No,” he repeats. “It’s not stupid to want to be chosen.”
Something in his voice sends a shiver down my spine.
I stare at him. “You sound like you know that line.”
He freezes.
Just for a heartbeat.
“I mean,” I say, warming to the confession now that it’s spilling out, “who writes things like that anymore? He told me?—”
