Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Savannah
The firehouse sleeps in that eerie, post-shift quiet—lights low, engines still, the scent of smoke and cold air woven into the walls. My boots barely make a sound on the epoxy floor as I move through the bay, the letter clutched in my glove like it’s a live coal.
I told myself I’d just slip in, drop it on Axel’s bunk, and go.
I’m a liar.
My pulse has been pounding behind my ribs ever since the moment I finished writing the damn thing. One page. A dozen sentences. Every one of them yanked straight from a place inside me I spent a decade pretending didn’t exist.
Now they’re ink.
On paper.
In my handwriting.
And I’m about two seconds from turning around and running like hell.
I reach the dorm hallway. The door creaks. It always creaks, but tonight the sound radiates down my spine like a warning. Everyone’s in their bunks, curtains drawn, breathing slow and deep. Except his.
Axel sleeps light.
He always did.
Even as a kid, he was the one who woke up when a branch snapped outside, the one who heard my window creak when I slipped outside after nightmares.
I step closer to his bunk, heart thundering.
His curtain is half-open. A sliver of him visible—bare shoulder, the rise and fall of his breath, arm thrown over his head. Tattoos in shadow. Muscles loose, like the world finally let him go for a few hours.
God.
He looks… peaceful.
Like the guilt that’s strangled him for years finally loosened its grip.
He deserves that peace.
He deserves everything.
My throat tightens, the letter getting heavier in my hand. I slip it onto the edge of his pillow, willing my fingers to release it.
But when I straighten, he shifts.
“Savannah?”
His voice is rough, thick with sleep, unmistakable.
I freeze. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He pushes up on an elbow, eyes trying to focus. Even half-asleep, he’s devastating—hair tousled, jaw shadowed, chest bare.
“What are you doing here?” His voice drops lower. Warmer. Curious. “Everything okay?”
No.
Yes.
Absolutely not.
All at once.
“I left you something,” I whisper, stepping back.
He doesn’t look away from me as his hand drags across the pillow… and finds the envelope.
My breath stutters.
He sits fully up, curtain sliding open, and suddenly it’s just him and me in the half-light—ten years between us and not enough space in the world to make distance out of it.
His thumb brushes my handwriting. His eyes flick to mine.
“Savannah,” he says, slow, careful, like the word matters. “What is this?”
My heart hits the wall of my chest. “Just… read it. Later.”
He studies me. Really studies me, like he’s cataloging every shake in my voice, every breath I’m trying to hide.
“Stay,” he says softly.
Not a demand. Not a plea.
Just truth.
“I can’t,” I whisper, backing away another step. “You should read it alone.”
He swings his legs over the side of the bunk, boots hitting the floor, body unfolding to full height. He’s only a foot from me now, the air between us thick enough to choke on.
“Savannah.” My name is a growl. A warning. A prayer. “What did you write?”
I swallow. “Everything I’ve been afraid to say.”
The muscle in his jaw flexes.
“Then don’t run.”
His hand lifts like he’s going to touch me—but he stops an inch from my cheek, trembling with restraint. His control is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, infuriating and addictive all at once.
I step back because I have to. Because if he touches me right now I’ll shatter into flame.
“I’ll be outside,” I whisper. “Just… read it.”
He doesn’t breathe as I turn.
I don’t breathe until I’m past the bay doors and into the cold night air. Snowflakes spill from the sky like tiny silent sparks, coating the rigs, the asphalt, the world.
And I wait.
Hands in my pockets, heart in my throat.
Minutes pass.
Five. Ten. Maybe more.
Then the firehouse door opens with a low, heavy groan.
Axel steps out. No coat. No gloves. Just a long-sleeve shirt stretched across his chest and that letter crushed in his fist like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
His eyes find mine instantly.
And God help me—they burn.
He walks toward me with purpose, boots crunching through the new snow, breath fogging. There’s nothing calm or cautious left in him now.
He stops inches away.
“Savannah,” he says hoarsely. “I—”
His voice breaks.
He swallows hard and tries again.
“You wrote… that I’m home?”
My chest squeezes painfully. “Yes.”
“You wrote that you found your place again.” His voice shakes. “In me.”
“I meant every word.”
For a second—one terrifying, suspended second—I think he might fall apart right in front of me.
Instead he exhales like he’s been drowning for years and finally hit the surface.
“I’ve loved you half my damn life,” he whispers.
My breath leaves me entirely.
His hand rises again—slow, like he’s giving me every chance to stop him.
I don’t.
His thumb brushes my jaw, warm and careful and possessive all at once. His other hand slides around my waist, tugging me closer, like he’s done it a thousand times in dreams he’d never admit.
“I thought…I thought I lost you forever,” he murmurs against my forehead. “But you came back.”
“I came back,” I whisper. “For my life. For myself. But… also for you.”
A low sound leaves him—something between relief and hunger.
Then his mouth finds mine.
It’s soft at first. Reverent. The kind of kiss two people give when they’re afraid the other might disappear again.
But then his fingers tighten in my coat.
And mine fist in his shirt.
And ten years of longing snap like a wire pulled too tight.
The kiss deepens, slow turning hungry, careful turning desperate. His teeth graze my lip, and I gasp into him, pulling him closer, drinking him in, letting ten years of fear and grief and wanting finally melt into something alive.
His breath is hot. His hands are firm. His control is fraying—beautifully, painfully, inevitably.
“Savannah,” he rasps against my lips, dragging his mouth to my jaw, my cheek, back to my mouth like he can’t choose where he needs me most. “Tell me this is real. Tell me you’re mine.”
I frame his face with my hands. “I’ve always been yours.”
A groan breaks from him—raw, guttural, full of every emotion he’s swallowed for a decade.
His forehead drops to mine, breath mingling with mine, both of us shaking.
“No more running?” he whispers.
“No more running.”
“Stay,” he breathes. “With me. Stay.”
“I’m here,” I promise. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Snow swirls around us like the universe is exhaling.
He kisses me again—slower this time, deep and certain, sealing something that’s been broken for too long.
His hands settle on my waist. Mine on his chest. Our breaths syncing. Hearts pounding like they’re relearning each other’s rhythm.
When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes my lip, tracing where he just kissed me.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.
“Maybe not,” I tease softly, breathless and dizzy. “But I’m choosing you anyway.”
He laughs under his breath—quiet, wrecked, relieved.
Then he pulls me into his chest, burying his face in my hair, arms wrapping around me with a kind of fierce, protective certainty that makes my knees weaken.
I melt into him.
We stand like that until the cold finally sinks through our clothes.
Until his heartbeat steadies.
Until mine matches it.
Until we know—without speaking—that this is the real beginning.
He pulls back just enough to look at me.
“We’re done with ghosts,” he says.
“Yes,” I whisper. “We are.”
“Have dinner with me tonight at my place.”
“Okay, I’d love that.” I stare up at the sweetest, kindest man I’ve ever known.
“Good, I can’t wait to spoil you and have you all to myself.” And then he threads his fingers through mine, squeezes once, and leads me back toward the firehouse—toward warmth, toward light, toward the future we almost never got.
The letter remains in his other hand.
But his grip on me is stronger.
And this time…
I don’t let go.