Smolder (Devil’s Peak Fire & Rescue #5)

Chapter 1

Dax

Istart every morning the same way.

Same alarm. Same boots. Same drive through Devil’s Peak while the sky is still bruised with dawn and the mountain smells like pine and cold. Same stop at The Devil’s Bean, because the firehouse coffee tastes like shit and because Rory Sullivan smiles at me like she’s glad I exist.

That’s the real reason.

I tell the guys I’m loyal to caffeine. Truth is, I’ve been loyal to her since high school—since she was all freckles and opinions and a red ponytail that snapped when she laughed.

Long before she owned the café. Long before the town decided we were inevitable.

Long before I learned how dangerous wanting her really was.

I push through the door, the bell chiming overhead, warmth and roasted coffee beans hitting me in the chest. The place is already alive—soft music, the hiss of steam, Valentine’s decorations creeping in like a pink invasion.

And Rory—she’s perched precariously on a ladder.

Pink heart lights spill around her like she’s tangled in them on purpose, one knee bent, red paint-stained Converse braced against a rung. She’s wearing one of her oversized sweaters, sleeves shoved up, red hair twisted into a messy knot that’s half falling apart.

She looks… unreal.

I stop walking without meaning to.

She glances down, catches me staring, and her mouth curves slow and knowing. “You’re going to trip if you keep gawking like that, Hayes.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m moving,” I say.

She snorts. “You’re early.”

“Firehouse order.” I rest a hand on the ladder, looking up at her. “You’re crooked.”

“So are you,” she fires back, then shifts to adjust the lights.

The ladder wobbles.

It’s barely a second. Barely anything at all. But my body reacts before my brain catches up.

“Red—”

Her foot slips.

I grab her.

Hard.

My hands lock around her waist, muscle memory and instinct slamming together, and she comes down against me with a sharp inhale, palms landing on my chest. The ladder rattles behind us, forgotten.

She’s warm. Solid. Real.

Her pulse jumps under my thumb where it’s pressed just above her hip, fast and frantic like it’s trying to outrun something. I feel it. She feels that I feel it.

Neither of us moves.

The café fades. The music, the steam, the scent of roasted beans—it all drops away until it’s just her breath against my throat and the way her eyes go wide, then dark.

“Dax,” she says quietly.

I should let go.

I don’t.

“You good?” I ask, voice low, steady, like I’m not holding her like she’s the answer to every question I’ve ever avoided.

Her fingers flex against my jacket. “Yeah. I—yeah.”

She doesn’t pull away either.

That’s the dangerous part.

I ease her back, just enough to look at her face, just enough to pretend this is normal. “You trying to give the town a show before Valentine’s even hits?”

Her lips part. She swallows. “Maybe I like living on the edge.”

“Funny,” I say. “I was going to say reckless.”

She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks are pink. “You always say that.”

“Because you always are.”

She steps back then, finally breaking contact, the space does nothing to calm the heat coiling low in my gut. She straightens her sweater like it’s misbehaved, then looks at me again—challenging, curious.

“You’re staring again.”

“Not denying it,” I say easily.

Her brows lift. “Oh?”

I shrug. “You’re hard to miss.”

Silence stretches, thick and electric. Something unspoken hums between us, louder than the espresso machine.

She clears her throat. “Coffee?”

“For the whole house,” I say. “You know the order.”

She turns toward the counter, but not before I catch the smile she tries to hide. “You’re predictable.”

“And you like it,” I say.

She laughs softly. “Maybe.”

I lean against the bar while she works, watching the way she moves—confident, practiced, like this place is an extension of her. She belongs here. She belongs everywhere.

The thought hits harder than it should.

She slides my cup across first. “On the house.”

I push it back toward her. “Don’t start.”

She arches a brow. “Consider it my Valentine’s gift. Don’t say I never got you anything.”

“That’s bad for business. And a terrible reason.”

“It isn’t when your best customer looks like he hasn’t slept.”

“Firehouse shifts,” I say.

“Is that all?” she asks lightly.

I freeze.

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?”

“Because I like knowing where to find you.”

She exhales, slow and shaky. “Dax…”

“Yeah?”

She shakes her head, smiling like she’s annoyed with herself. “Nothing. See you tomorrow.”

I step outside into the cold, the bell chiming behind me, her warmth still burned into my hands.

As I walk back to the truck, one thought keeps looping, dangerous and intoxicating.

For the first time in years, I let myself wonder—

What if she feels it too?

And what the hell am I going to do if she does?