Chapter 8
Levi
The church ladies insist the Spring Gala needs “elegance.”
Which is how I end up in the firehouse rec room the following Thursday night, staring at Sadie Marshall in a fitted black dress while Mrs. Dottie Henderson claps like we’re auditioning for a mountain version of Dancing with the Stars.
“Posture, Lieutenant!” Mrs. Dottie barks. “This is a waltz, not a rescue extraction.”
“I know how to lead,” I mutter.
Sadie’s mouth curves. “Debatable.”
The firehouse crew has vacated under the guise of “equipment checks,” which means they’re probably eavesdropping from the apparatus bay.
Mrs. Dottie cues up a dramatic instrumental version of something that sounds suspiciously like a 90s love ballad.
“Hand at her waist,” she instructs.
I step forward. Sadie doesn’t retreat. My palm settles at her hip. Heat spreads instantly.
She inhales sharply. Covers it with a bright, “Ready, Lieutenant?”
“Always.”
Her fingers lace into mine. Her other hand slides up to my shoulder. It feels too natural. Too familiar.
Mrs. Dottie begins counting. “One, two, three. One, two, three.”
We move and Sadie’s body follows mine like it remembers. Her eyes flick up to mine, playful and challenging all at once.
“You’re stiff,” she murmurs.
“You’re distracting.”
“Professional answer.”
“Honest one.”
Her lips twitch. We turn. Her skirt brushes my thigh. The music swells. I pull her a fraction closer than necessary. Mrs. Dottie gasps softly in approval.
“Chemistry!” she whispers like she just discovered penicillin.
Sadie leans in slightly. “We’re supposed to look believable.”
“Trust me,” I murmur, tightening my hold just enough to make her breath hitch, “we do.”
Her fingers dig into my shoulder. The room feels smaller with every step. We pivot again. Her hair brushes my jaw. Her perfume hits me—something warm, subtle, dangerous.
“You’re enjoying this,” she accuses quietly.
“I’m tolerating it.”
“You’re lying.”
“Maybe.”
She tilts her chin up.
“Is this part fake?” she asks.
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I slide my hand lower—just slightly—guiding her into a slow turn. Her hips align with mine. Her eyes darken.
“Levi,” she warns.
“What?”
“Your hand.”
“Is exactly where it needs to be.”
Mrs. Dottie claps. “That’s it! Feel the romance!”
Romance isn’t the word for what’s coiling between us. It’s something hotter. Something reckless. We glide across the floor again.
She moves beautifully—confident, steady, completely aware of how her body fits against mine.
“You practiced,” I say.
“I didn’t want to embarrass you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
She studies me for a beat. “Still trying to protect me?”
“Always.” The word slips out before I can filter it.
She goes quiet. We step. Turn. Her fingers curl tighter in mine.
After a moment she says, softer, “You didn’t protect me from everything.”
The music continues but it fades into the background. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She swallows. “You never came to visit.”
The words land heavier than they should. I keep leading. Keep us moving.
“College was your thing,” I say evenly.
“That wasn’t what I asked.” She steps closer, forcing the proximity. “Why didn’t you come see me?”
Mrs. Dottie clears her throat. “Smile, children.”
We paste on polite expressions. Underneath, something cracks. I guide Sadie through another turn.
“You were building a life,” I say quietly.
“With who?” she fires back. “Books?”
“With people who weren’t me.”
Her breath stutters.
“That’s the point,” she says. “You didn’t even try.”
I stop mid-step. The music keeps playing but we’ve frozen in the center of the floor.
Mrs. Dottie frowns. “Flow, flow!”
I ignore her. Sadie looks up at me, eyes blazing now.
“You didn’t call. You didn’t visit. You didn’t show up.”
My jaw tightens. “You wanted out.”
“I wanted more.”
“I didn’t fit in that more.”
“You didn’t even ask.”
The truth claws up my throat. I step closer.
“So you want the answer?” I say low enough that only she can hear.
“Yes.”
My hand slides firmly around her waist again. “If I saw you building a life without me,” I tell her, voice steady but tight at the edges, “I wouldn’t have survived it.” She stills and the words hang between us. “I didn’t want to watch you outgrow me.”
Her mouth parts. “You think I would’ve?”
“You already were.”
Her grip on my shoulder loosens.
“I was figuring out who I was,” she says.
“And I was figuring out how to let you.”
The music slows into a softer tempo. Mrs. Dottie beams, assuming we’re acting.
We aren’t.
Sadie searches my face. “You thought I’d forget you.”
“I thought I’d ruin it for you.”
Her voice drops. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
“I didn’t want to be the small-town boyfriend who made you choose.”
“I didn’t want to choose,” she snaps.
“Life makes you.”
We move again, but slower now.
She presses closer, her body aligning with mine as if the argument itself is fuel.
“You should’ve come,” she whispers.
“And what?” I counter. “Watched you shine somewhere I didn’t belong?”
“You belonged with me.”
The statement rattles something deep inside me. My grip tightens instinctively. Her breath catches.
“You make it sound simple,” I say.
“It was.”
“It wasn’t.”
We pivot again. Her hair brushes my cheek.
“I waited,” she admits quietly.
“For what?”
“For you to show up.”
The confession lands like a punch. My chest tightens.
“I thought you wanted space.”
“I wanted to know you’d fight.”
I stop again. The music fades to a soft instrumental bridge.
“I would’ve fought anyone,” I tell her. “Just not you.”
Her eyes glisten, but she doesn’t look away. “You don’t get to decide what I needed.”
“I was eighteen, Sadie.”
“So was I.”
Silence stretches. The air thickens. Mrs. Dottie whispers something about “electric tension” from the sidelines.
I slide my hand up her back, fingers splaying between her shoulder blades and she shivers.
“You think this is easier for me now?” I murmur.
“You’re the one acting like it’s nothing.”
“It’s never been nothing.”
Her breath falters. “Then stop pretending.”
I lean closer. “I’m not pretending.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Hotshot.” The nickname slips out without thought.
Her lashes flutter. “You don’t get to call me that and act indifferent.”
“I’m not indifferent.”
“Then what are you?”
I step forward until there’s no space left. The music swells again.
“I’m trying not to drag you somewhere I can’t undo.”
Her pulse jumps under my palm.
“You think I can’t handle you?” she challenges.
“I know you can.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
I dip her slightly in a smooth, controlled motion. Her breath leaves her in a soft gasp. The room disappears.
“It’s not about handling,” I say quietly, hovering inches above her mouth. “It’s about what happens if I don’t stop.”
Her eyes darken. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”
Heat flares through me. I bring her upright slowly, deliberately. “You say that now.”
“I’ve said worse.”
“You always do.”
She smiles faintly. “You liked it.”
“I loved it.”
The admission shocks both of us. We fall back into rhythm instinctively. The music builds toward its final crescendo. She rests her forehead lightly against my chest for a split second before lifting her gaze again.
“You don’t get to make decisions for me anymore,” she says.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m protecting what we have left.”
“What do we have left?”
I hesitate. Then answer honestly. “Everything.”
Her breath trembles.
“That’s terrifying,” she whispers.
“Yeah.”
Mrs. Dottie claps as the song ends. “Perfect!” she declares. “Passionate but tasteful.”
Tasteful.
If she had any idea.
Sadie pulls her hand from mine slowly. The absence feels immediate. Mrs. Dottie bustles off to retrieve lemonade. We stand there alone for a beat.
“Why now?” Sadie asks quietly.
“Why what?”
“Why tell me that?”
“Because you asked.”
“And if I hadn’t?”
“I’d still be standing here wishing I’d gone to see you.”
Her eyes soften.
“You should’ve,” she says.
“I know.”
Silence hums between us.
Then she lifts her chin slightly.
“We still have sixty days,” she reminds me.
“Of pretending.”
“Of surviving charity season.”
I step closer again.
“Sixty days,” I repeat.
“And no real feelings.”
I study her. “Too late.”
Her breath catches. “Levi.”
“You wanted honesty.”
“I did.”
“Then here it is.”
The slow burn between us shifts—deeper now, heavier with truth.
She swallows. “Don’t make promises you won’t keep.”
“I don’t.”
“Good.” Her fingers brush mine briefly, intentionally. “Because if you walk away again,” she says softly, “I won’t wait this time.”
The warning lands squarely. I nod once. “I won’t.”
The firehouse doors open in the distance and Sawyer’s voice echoes, “Are we dancing or proposing in there?”
Sadie laughs softly. “Guess we’re believable.”
I watch her walk toward the hallway, confident, steady, sunlight catching in her hair. The slow burn isn’t slow anymore. It’s building.
And this time?
I’m not standing on the sidelines while she builds a life without me.