Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Ash
Holly is safe.
That’s the first thing that steadies me as I pull the firehouse door open and usher Lucy inside ahead of me. My niece is at a Christmas sleepover two blocks away, surrounded by sugar cookies, glitter glue, and parents who adore her.
And that leaves me here.
At the firehouse.
In the dark.
During a storm.
With Lucy Snow.
She steps into the main bay, hugging her jacket tighter, looking around like she’s never been somewhere this empty. Usually the place is buzzing—sirens, alarms, chatter, boots clanging, radios crackling.
Tonight it’s quiet.
Too quiet.
She turns toward me, headlamp off now, hair falling loose around her shoulders from where she pushed her hood back. Snowflakes cling to the ends, catching the overhead lights like tiny stars.
And my brain just… stops.
“Okay,” she says softly. “Where am I sleeping?”
A muscle jumps in my jaw.
I should’ve prepared for this. I should’ve set boundaries. Thought logically. Remembered who I am and what I’m responsible for.
Instead I say, “My room.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Your room?”
“It’s the warmest,” I mutter, heading toward the stairs before I can change my mind. “Best mattress. Heated vent works faster in there.”
“You programmed your HVAC for your bedroom?” she asks, following behind me.
“It’s not quite a bedroom,” I growl. “It’s a single bed.”
“A fancy bed?”
“I didn’t say fancy.”
“You implied fancy.”
I turn sharply enough she nearly collides with me. “Lucy.”
She blinks up at me, innocent as a cat that just stole something off the counter.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t start.”
“Start what?”
“Anything.”
She smiles—sweet, dangerous, made of trouble. “I’m not doing anything.”
“You exist,” I say. “That’s more than enough.”
Her breath hitches. She tries to hide it.
Fails.
I swear under my breath and force myself up the stairs before I do something stupid.
My room is small—barely bigger than a walk-in closet.
Single bed. Metal frame. Dark gray linens. One nightstand. A hook for my turnout pants. A door that doesn’t quite latch.
Nothing in here is comfortable except the mattress. I always end up waking up here after a long shift. Holly sneaks in sometimes for naps. It’s quiet. Familiar.
Safe.
But it is absolutely not safe right now.
Lucy steps inside and does a slow turn, taking in the space. “Wow. Your decorating style is… minimal.”
“It’s a firehouse, not a resort.”
“I’ve seen jail cells with more personality.”
“Don’t push it.”
Her smile widens.
I want to put her against the wall and erase the smile with my mouth.
God, I need sleep.
Or oxygen.
Or distance.
None of which I’m getting.
I drop her bag beside the bed.
“You take this,” I say, nodding at the mattress. “I’ll take the couch downstairs.”
She crosses her arms. “No.”
“It’s not up for discussion.”
“It absolutely is.”
I narrow my eyes. “Lucy. Take the damn bed.”
She tilts her head like she’s examining a zoo exhibit. “Do you think I’m fragile?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
She steps closer.
I don’t back up.
She pokes a finger into my chest. “You think I can’t survive one night on a firehouse couch?”
“That couch is older than both of us.”
“I’ve slept on worse.”
“I doubt it.”
She pokes me again. “Stop being overprotective.”
I catch her wrist. Her breath catches and we both go still. Her pulse flutters under my fingers. Her skin is warm. Soft. Way too soft.
“Lucy,” I warn, voice low. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?” she whispers.
“Challenge me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m tired. Because this storm is bad. Because my restraint is shot to hell. Because you’re wearing a sweater that should be illegal. Because your hair smells like vanilla and snow. Because I’m one second from—”
I cut myself off. Her eyes go wide.
She whispers, “From what?”
I drop her wrist like it burns.
“Bed,” I snap. “Take it.”
She stares at me a long moment—curious, flustered, confused—and then shakes her head.
“No.”
“Lucy.”
“No, Ash.”
“I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“And I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“I don’t need comfort.”
“Too bad.”
“This isn’t a debate.”
“It is now.”
“Lucy.”
“Ash.”
Her tone matches mine. Her chin lifts.
Heat surges through me like someone struck a match in my chest. I inhale sharply. “Fine.”
“Fine,” she echoes.
“We’ll both sleep here.”
She blinks. “In the same bed?”
I grit my teeth. “On. The. Bed. Not in any kind of romantic—”
She snorts. “Wow. Thank you for clarifying.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Christ.”
She laughs softly, stepping around me to pull back the blanket. She sits gingerly on the edge and tests the mattress.
“…Okay,” she admits. “Fine. It’s amazing.”
“Told you.”
She kicks off her boots, then glances up at me. “Aren’t you getting in?”
My body reacts immediately. My brain reacts late.
“Not with you staring at me,” I mutter.
She flushes and tosses herself back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. “Fine. I won’t look.”
I strip off my jacket. My sweatshirt. Leaving me in a fitted black T-shirt that clings from the heat of the firehouse.
I see her eyes flicker. Even though she “isn’t looking.”
I climb onto the bed cautiously, staying as far from her as physically possible—which ends up being maybe three inches since the bed isn’t exactly king-sized.
Lucy immediately rolls onto her side to face me.
“Stop,” I say.
“Stop what?”
“Looking at me.”
“You didn’t tell me I had to face the wall.”
“Face the wall.”
She laughs. “No.”
I stare at the ceiling. Hard. “Lucy—”
“Ash.”
Another stalemate.
Her voice softens. “I’m not trying to make this hard.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
She shifts closer—just a fraction—but I feel it like a seismic event.
“You’re warm,” she murmurs.
“You’re trouble.”
“That’s not mutually exclusive.”
I let out a rough exhale. “Lucy.”
“Hm?”
“If you move any closer, I’m going to lose it.”
“…Lose what?”
“My goddamn sanity.”
She smiles—small, wicked, and hidden partly in the dark. “Thought you lost that when I moved in next door.”
“Not helping.”
She sighs and settles onto her back. But the room is too quiet. The dark too intimate. The bed too small. Her breathing too soft.
She whispers into the space between us:
“Thank you for coming for me. For not… leaving me in that cabin.”
I swallow hard. “I wasn’t going to.”
“I know.”
Silence.
She fidgets with the hem of her sweater. “And thank you for…trusting me with Holly. For letting me help decorate. For letting her follow me around like a shadow.”
“She likes you.”
“I like her too.”
That tugs something deep in my gut.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were scared?” I ask quietly.
“Because you always seem so in control,” she whispers. “I didn’t want to be one more thing you had to fix.”
I turn toward her.
She turns toward me.
For the first time tonight, there’s no teasing. No banter. No armor.
Just her.
Her lips part slightly. Her eyes search mine. Her breath brushes my cheek.
We’re too close. Far too close. I should move. I don’t.
Her voice barely registers above the storm outside. “I don’t make you uncomfortable, do I?”
“Yes.”
Her face falls.
I lean in. Close enough that my mouth almost grazes hers. Close enough to feel her inhale.
“Because I want you,” I murmur, “more than is remotely safe. That’s why.”
She gasps—a soft, broken sound that goes straight to my spine.
“Ash…”
“Don’t say my name like that,” I warn.
“Like what?”
“Like you want me to break every rule I have.”
She whispers, “Maybe I do.”
I shut my eyes, breathing hard. “Christ.”
Seconds stretch. Her hand drifts across the bed until her fingers brush mine. A touch so small it shouldn’t matter. It matters. God, it matters.
I flip my hand palm-up. She slides her fingers into mine. It’s nothing. It’s everything.
Her whisper is barely air: “I feel safer with you than I have in a long time.”
That hits deeper than any kiss. The storm rattles the firehouse. The bed creaks. The world narrows to her hand in mine. I shift—just an inch—enough that our knees graze.
Heat floods her face. And then— We stop.
Just breathing. Just holding hands. Just fighting the same war on two different fronts.
Neither of us sleeps. Not even for a minute. And that’s when I finally understand: the storm isn’t outside.
It’s in this bed.
Between us.
Waiting.