She glances up, just a flicker, like she’s testing something. Waiting.
I grin, slow and deliberate. “Careful, Red. That sounds like flirting.”
Her laugh comes out a little breathless. “With you? Never.”
“Liar.”
She shakes her head, busying herself with lids and sleeves. “You’ve been staring at me since I was sixteen. I think I’m immune by now.”
The words land sharper than she means them.
Since sixteen.
More than a decade.
Since always.
I step closer, lowering my voice. “You think I stare because I don’t know you?”
She stills.
Slowly, she looks at me.
Her eyes search my face, like she’s trying to read something written between the lines. “Then why do you?”
The question hangs there, dangerous and fragile.
Because I’ve loved you forever.
Because you’re the only thing that ever felt like home.
Because if I cross that line, I might lose you.
I don’t say any of it.
Instead, I smirk. “Occupational hazard. Firefighters are trained observers.”
She scoffs. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re glowing,” I say quietly, glancing at the lights above her head. “Valentine’s suits you.”
Something shifts in her expression—softens. “You think?”
“I know.”
She looks away first.
I take the win, small as it is.
When I finally grab the carrier of cups, she walks me to the door. “Be careful out there.”
“Always am,” I say, then pause. “You working late tonight?”
She hesitates. “Probably.”
I nod, heart ticking louder. “Good.”
Her mouth twitches. “Why?”
