Chapter 4
Rory
Itell myself I’m not nervous.
That this is normal. Exciting. Silly, even. A fun little Valentine’s mystery that will either end in a great story or a polite laugh over drinks.
Still, my hands shake as I smooth my dress for the third time.
The café is closed early tonight, the lights dimmed, pink hearts strung across the windows like a Candyland storefront. The Devil’s Brew glows across the street, already buzzing with Valentine’s energy—candles, laughter, couples leaning close like the world might end if they don’t touch.
I glance at the clock.
Forty minutes.
I’ve read his last letter twice already.
I’ll be the one waiting for you.
Simple. Confident. Familiar in a way that curls something low in my belly.
I lock the café door and turn—nearly colliding with a broad chest that smells like smoke and winter and something unmistakably male.
“Jesus, Dax.”
He steadies me by the elbows, hands warm and solid. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
His eyes flick down my body before he catches himself. The look lingers anyway.
“You’re dressed up,” he says.
I lift a shoulder. “It’s Valentine’s.”
His jaw tightens. He releases me like it costs him something. “Right.”
I grab my coat, shrugging into it. “Firehouse duty tonight?”
“On call because of the storm,” he says. “It was a last minute thing. Might be busy.”
Of course.
Devil’s Peak never does romance without chaos.
“Well,” I say, suddenly breathless, “wish me luck.”
He nods once. “Good luck, Red.”
The words land heavier than they should.
I hesitate, fingers curling around my purse strap. “You okay?”
He smiles, but it’s tight around the edges. “Always.”
I don’t believe him.
But I also don’t push.
Because pushing Dax has never been easy.
“I’ve never said this, but thanks for the coffee orders,” I say instead.
He shrugs. “Habit.”
“Careful,” I tease. “People might think you’re sweet.”
He leans in just enough that his voice drops. “Only with you.”
Heat flashes between us—sharp, uninvited, undeniable.
I step back first.
Because if I don’t, I might do something reckless. Like kiss my best friend. Like blow up everything.
“I should go,” I say.
He opens the door for me, letting the cold air rush in. Snowflakes drift lazily, catching in his hair.
“Text me if you need a ride,” he says.
“Dax—”
“I mean it,” he cuts in, voice low. “Storm or no storm.”
I nod, throat tight. “Okay.”
We stand there a second too long.
Then I walk away before I can look back.
The Devil’s Brew is warm and loud and packed with couples who look so sure of each other it makes my chest ache.
I take a table near the window, order a drink I don’t need, and check my phone.
Everyone here is paired up. No single men with lingering gazes like they’re waiting for someone.
I tell myself he’s just late.
The bartender lights another candle. Someone laughs too loud. Snow starts to fall harder.
Ten minutes pass.
Then twenty.
My stomach knots.
Maybe he’s nervous too, I think. Maybe he’s watching from across the room.
I scan the crowd.
Nothing.
The door opens. Cold air sweeps in.
It’s not him.
The clock ticks louder than it should.
I pull his last letter out of my bag and reread it.
I’ll be the one waiting for you.
My jaw tightens.
Thirty minutes.
My drink sits untouched.
The snow outside thickens, swirling faster now, angry and relentless.
A couple near me murmurs something about roads closing.
My phone buzzes.
It’s Dax.
Storm’s getting bad. You okay?
I stare at the screen.
Fine, I type. Then erase it.
Still waiting, I finally send.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears.
The bartender flicks on the TV—weather alert scrolling across the bottom.
“Roads are closing,” he calls. “Town’s gonna shut down soon.”
My chest caves in.
Of course.
Of course Valentine’s Day would end like this.
I drain my drink and stand, pulling on my coat with more force than necessary.
Outside, the snow hits my face like a slap.
I don’t cry.
I refuse.
Instead, I walk.
Halfway down the street, headlights cut through the storm.
A familiar truck slows.
Dax rolls down the window. “Get in.”
“I’m fine.”
“Red.”
That tone.
I climb in.
The cab smells like him. Leather and heat and something grounding.
We sit in silence for a block.
Then I snap. “I was stupid.”
“Hey—”
“I knew better,” I continue. “A year of letters and I let myself believe—”
He grips the wheel. “He didn’t stand you up.”
I laugh, sharp and humorless. “Sure felt like it.”
“The roads—”
“Always an excuse,” I cut in. “That’s what they say when they don’t show.”
He pulls over abruptly.
Snow pelts the windshield. A whiteout blinds the road in front of us.
He turns to face me fully.
“Look at me.”
I do.
His eyes are dark. Intent. Stripped bare.
“You weren’t stupid,” he says. “You were brave.”
My breath hitches.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says quietly. “Because whoever he is? He’s an idiot for missing tonight.”
Something twists inside me—relief and pain tangled together.
I swallow. “You don’t have to make me feel better.”
“I’m not.”
The silence stretches.
The snow howls.
Finally, I whisper, “I hate that I care.”
His voice drops. “Then stop pretending you don’t.”
I turn away, staring out the window. “You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Say the thing that makes it impossible to ignore.”
He exhales slowly. “Maybe it’s time you stopped ignoring it.”
I laugh softly. “You’re impossible.”
He smiles. “You love it.”
The truck starts moving again.
“Firehouse is on lockdown,” he says. “Roads are closed.”
I glance at him. “Are you serious?”
“Blizzard’s official,” he says. “I bet everyone’s Valentine’s plans changed.”
My heart stutters.
“Guess so,” I murmur.
He pulls into the station, lights glowing against the snow.
As we step inside, warmth wraps around us, heavy with something unspoken.
I turn to him, voice barely steady. “Thanks for not letting me walk home alone.”
He steps closer. “Never.”
The word lands between us like a promise.
Or a warning.
And suddenly, being snowed in with Dax Hayes feels far more dangerous than missing a date ever could.