Chapter 5
Dax
The storm hits like a damn ambush.
One minute I’m checking chains on Engine Two, the next the wind screams so loud it rattles the bay doors. Snow slams sideways, white and violent, swallowing Devil’s Peak whole.
“Roads are closing,” Saxon calls from dispatch. “County just shut everything down.”
The radio crackles. Another voice cuts in. “Whiteout on Route Seven. We’re locking the station.”
My gut tightens.
I look toward the doors.
Toward the parking lot.
Toward Rory. She’s snuggled up on the old sofa in the common room watching The Weather Channel with a cup of peppermint tea in hand. She looks cute as hell.
“Hayes,” Ash says, already shrugging into his jacket. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “I’m good.”
I’m not.
Because Rory was supposed to be at The Devil’s Brew tonight. Because she walked out of her café dressed like hope. Because she trusted someone—me, even if she doesn’t know it—to show up.
I went to The Devil’s Brew the moment Captain and I got back from putting up road closed signs at the juncture of I-70 and 91.
I cross the bay, my sights set on her.
“You okay, Red?” I sit next to her, giving her a reassuring pat on her knee.
She looks up, eyes bright. “Worried about Honey at home, but otherwise I’m fine.”
Which means she’s not.
Saxon clears his throat then. “We’re officially in lockdown, boys. Anyone not on call is bunking here.”
Rory’s mouth opens. “Wait—what?”
“Blizzard protocol,” Ash says. “Roads are impassable.”
“But I only live a mile away, I could walk,” she protests.
“Not safe for foot traffic.” Captain informs her.
Her shoulders slump.
And there it is.
Disappointment. Sharp and raw.
I lean closer. “Red—”
She laughs, brittle. “Of course. Of course tonight would end like this.”
The words hit me like a punch.
I want to tell her everything. I want to tell her I never missed a letter. That I didn’t stand her up. That I never missed her. That every word she waited for was written with my hands shaking because I wanted her so bad it hurt.
Instead, I say, “You’re safe here.”
She looks at me. Really looks.
“That’s not the problem.”
The guys scatter, suddenly very busy with gear checks and coffee. No one wants to be in the blast radius of whatever this is.
The wind howls outside. The station creaks under it.
I have to physically clench my hands to stop myself from reaching for her.
She turns to me. “Guess my Valentine got snowed in.”
“Probably,” I say too quickly.
She scoffs. “You’re a terrible liar, Dax.”
I smirk despite myself. “You’re a terrible optimist.”
Her eyes narrow. “Says the man who shows up at my café every morning like clockwork.”
I shrug. “Routine keeps me alive.”
She leans closer. Too close.
The air changes.
“I don’t know why I thought tonight would be different,” she says quietly.
Something in my chest cracks.
“Red,” I murmur. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Her laugh is soft. Sad. “I wrote a year’s worth of letters to a ghost.”
I swallow hard.
“You wrote them to someone who cared,” I say.
She tilts her head. “How do you know?”
Because it was me.
Because every letter was my truth without armor.
I don’t say that.
Instead, I say, “Because no one writes like that unless they mean it.”
She studies me, suspicious and searching.
Then the lights flicker.
The power cuts and the tv flickers off. The few guys that were lingering around the bay move down the hallway toward the kitchen and bunk rooms.
Emergency generators kick in, bathing the bay in dim red light.
Romantic as hell.
Dangerous as sin.
“Guess I’m officially stuck for the night.”
“With me,” I add.
Her lips twitch. “Lucky me.”
I grin. “Careful. You’ll hurt my feelings.”
She folds her arms. “You don’t have feelings.”
“Only for coffee and chaos,” I say. “And you.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.
Her breath hitches.
I step back, palms up. “Sorry. Storm brain. Been a long day.”
She doesn’t call me on it.
Instead, she says, “Where am I sleeping?”
I point toward the bunk room. “There’s a spare.”
“And you?”
“I’ll take the couch.”
She arches a brow. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make yourself uncomfortable so everyone else doesn’t have to.”
I meet her gaze. “That’s literally my job.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t have to be a hero all the time.”
“I’m not,” I say quietly. “Just stubborn.”
The heater hums. Snow pounds the roof.
We stand there, neither moving.
Finally, she says, “You got anything to eat?”
“Firehouse kitchen,” I answer. “It’s not fancy.”
She smiles faintly. “Neither am I.”
We spend the next twenty minutes standing at the counter eating soup from a can. It’s normal. Almost peaceful.
Her knee brushes mine.
Once.
Twice.
Neither of us moves away.
“You nervous?” she asks softly.
“Always,” I admit.
“About the storm?”
“No.”
She waits.
I don’t elaborate.
Because if I do, I’ll tell her everything.