Chapter 10
Rory
The firehouse settles into a strange kind of quiet after midnight—machines breathing, lights dimmed, the storm clawing at the windows like it wants in. Valentine’s decorations blink lazily along the bulletin board, red hearts pulsing against concrete walls that have seen far worse than heartbreak.
Dax doesn’t touch me when we step into the empty bunk room.
He closes the door with his foot, gentle. Careful. Like everything he’s doing tonight is measured against the promise he made—to say it to my face, to let me choose.
I take off my cardigan because it’s suddenly too warm, then too cold, then everything at once. He watches me with that steady, unflinching gaze that’s always undone me. The firefighter who runs into flames. The man who wrote me into something braver than I thought I could be.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod. Then shake my head. Then laugh softly, because of course that’s the answer. “I don’t know what okay looks like tonight.”
“That’s fair,” he says. “We don’t have to define anything.”
I study his hands—scarred, strong, patient. The hands that caught me on a ladder. That held the truth like it might explode if he squeezed too hard.
“Come here,” I say.
It’s a simple invitation. Not a command. Not a plea.
He crosses the room like gravity finally let go.
When his hands find my waist, it’s slow. A question asked with his thumbs. My answer is immediate—I lean in, rest my forehead against his chest, breathe him in. Soap and smoke and something steady I didn’t realize I’d been missing.
We stay like that for a long moment. No rush. No heat chasing us into mistakes.
His breath ghosts my hair. “Tell me if this isn’t what you want.”
I tilt my chin up. “It is.”
The first kiss isn’t a collision. It’s a meeting.
Soft. Intentional. His mouth warm and careful, like he’s memorizing the shape of me after years of imagining. I feel the tremor in him before I feel it in myself, the way his restraint frays when my fingers curl into his shirt.
He pulls back, soft smile on his face. “You’re shaking.”
My smile lifts. “You always do that to me.”
“I guess I should’ve kissed you sooner,” he says. “But I wanted it to mean everything.”
“It does,” I say.
The second kiss deepens. Still unhurried, but certain now. His hand slides to the back of my neck, grounding me. Mine trace the line of his jaw, the stubble rough against my skin. It’s all sensation and recognition and relief.
We make it to the bottom bunk without speaking, like our bodies already know the map. He sits first, pulls me down with him, not on his lap—beside him. Shoulder to shoulder. Thighs touching. Sparks everywhere.
I laugh softly when his forehead drops to mine again. “You’re still being careful.”
His breath catches. “Red—if you want me to leave—”
“Don’t,” I murmur. “Not tonight. Tonight you stay.”
His mouth finds mine again, slower still, and something inside me finally loosens. The knot I’ve been carrying since the red envelopes began to arrive, since I started believing in something unseen. This—this is seen. Felt. Real.
We don’t tear at clothes. We don’t tumble. We touch like time is finally on our side.
His fingers trace my wrist, then my arm, like he’s learning me for the first time. I map the familiar slope of his shoulder, the solid reassurance of him. We trade kisses and quiet laughter, the storm roaring outside.
“I keep thinking I’ll wake up and it will all be gone,” I admit against his mouth.
“It’s not,” he says, firm. “I’m here.”
When he kisses me again, it’s deeper—not desperate, but certain. I feel it settle into my bones.
Just him.
Just us.
And for the first time in a year, I don’t wonder who I’m writing to.
I already know.