Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Lucy
The storm passes in the early hours, leaving the whole mountain glittering like someone dumped powdered silver over Devil’s Peak.
Sunlight pierces through the firehouse dorm window in sharp, cold beams, catching on frost that’s crept across the glass overnight.
It should feel peaceful. It should feel calm.
Instead, my heart is doing something borderline illegal.
Because I’m waking up in Ash Calder’s bed.
Not like that — obviously not like that — but close enough that my entire body remembers every charged second from last night.
The mattress dips slightly beside me, and when I blink the sleep from my eyes, I see the broad, tense line of Ash’s back.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, boots half-laced, shoulders knotted tight beneath a black shirt that fits him indecently well.
He looks exhausted. And not from the storm.
From me.
From us.
From whatever the hell is happening between us that neither of us knows how to name.
I shift quietly, but the blanket rustles, and Ash turns his head.
His eyes meet mine, and the breath leaves my lungs.
Morning light sharpens his features — the sharp jaw, the scruff darkening his cheek, the faint crease between his brows that only appears when he’s fighting something he doesn’t want to say.
“Morning,” he says, voice low and rough from sleep.
Heat shoots straight through me. “Hey.”
Brilliant. I sound like someone who’s never spoken to a man before.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn't tease. He just studies me with an intensity that makes me want to crawl under the mattress and hide forever. Or crawl into his lap and forget entirely how to breathe. There is no in-between.
“You sleep?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“Me either.”
He says it quietly, like an admission he didn’t plan on giving. My pulse stutters. He stands and finishes lacing his boots, shoulders shifting beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, muscles flexing. He glances toward the window where sunlight bounces off fresh snowbanks.
“Roads are clear,” he says. “Plows came through at dawn. Power company says the grid should be back up.”
Right. Time to leave.
Time to go back to my little cabin. Back to my quiet life. Back to pretending last night didn’t happen — the darkness, the almost-touching, the warmth of his body next to mine, the way his hand closed around mine like he wasn’t letting go unless someone physically pried him off.
I sit up slowly. “That’s good. I should probably head home, then.”
He nods once, but it’s too sharp, too clipped. Not the casual agreement of a man who wants you gone. The controlled retreat of a man trying not to show exactly how much it bothers him.
“You can,” he says. His tone is even, but his jaw flexes. “If you want to.”
If you want to.
Not if you should. Not if you need to.
If you want to.
I swallow, throat tight. “Right. I mean… it was really nice of you to let me stay here last night.”
“Wasn’t a problem.”
“You let me take your bed.”
“You refused to take it.”
“You growled.”
“You smirked.”
Heat flashes across my cheeks. “That’s not the point.”
He finally turns fully toward me, leaning back against the dresser with arms crossed over his chest. He looks too big for the small room, too powerful, too present, like he’s taking up not just space but air.
“What is the point, Lucy?” he asks.
“That I… I don’t want to be a bother.”
“You weren’t.”
“And I don’t want to overstay.”
“You didn’t.”
“And I don’t want you to feel obligated to—”
“I don’t.”
His voice snaps across the room like a live wire.
My breath catches. His expression softens by half a degree as he drags a hand down his face, like he’s annoyed at himself for letting anything slip.
“Look,” he says quieter, “I’m not trying to tell you what to do.”
“Really? Since when?”
The corner of his mouth twitches — not a smile, but the ghost of one. “Since right now.”
“Oh. A new leaf,” I tease.
“Don’t push it.”
I push it anyway. “Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation.”
“I didn’t sleep because someone kept breathing next to me.”
I blink. “You’re blaming me for your breathing?”
“I’m blaming you for how loud your breathing was.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Doesn’t have to.”
The heat in his eyes makes it impossible to look at him too long. I glance toward the window again, where the storm’s aftermath sparkles beneath the rising sun.
“Well,” I say, pushing off the bed and standing way too close to him, “then I guess I should—”
“Stay.”
It’s one word. One syllable. One low, rough command that hits me like a physical touch.
My breath halts in my chest. He stiffens too, like he surprised himself by saying it out loud.
“Ash…” I whisper.
He looks me up and down slowly, carefully, like he’s cataloging every reason this is a bad idea and every reason he wants to ignore all of them.
“You don’t have to rush back,” he says, voice softer now.
“There’s still festival decorating to finish.
The parade float team’s meeting this afternoon.
And Holly will want to show you the nativity crafts she made.
And…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I could use help with a few things.”
Festival prep. Parade stuff. Holly. All perfectly reasonable, non-threatening adult tasks.
But none of them are why he wants me to stay. We both know it.
My voice comes out embarrassingly fast. “Okay.”
His brows lift. “Okay?”
“Yeah. I mean—sure. I can stay. For festival stuff. If you need an extra set of hands. I don’t have to rush home. I’m not in a hurry or anything. Like, at all.”
Stop talking, Lucy. Stop talking immediately.
He stares at me like he’s trying to figure out if I just impulsively agreed to something I don’t understand. Or if I understand perfectly.
“You’re sure?” he asks, low.
“Very.”
A beat of silence stretches between us — tense, thick, buzzing with all the things we didn’t say last night. All the things we almost said. Almost did.
Then he exhales, slow and deep, shoulders dropping like he’s been holding tension all night and is just now letting it drain out.
“Good,” he says softly. “I didn’t want you to go.”
The confession is subtle. Barely there. But it slides under my skin like heat. I pretend not to hear too much in it. He pretends not to have said too much.
“Let’s get breakfast,” he says, pushing off the dresser and heading toward the stairs. “Crew stocked the fridge yesterday. There’s coffee, too. If the storm didn’t freeze the pipes.”
“Coffee sounds perfect,” I say, grabbing my sweater.
He glances back at me. Not at my face. At my throat. My collarbone. The flush spreading down my chest.
He swallows once, hard. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Coffee.”
We head downstairs, our shoulders brushing once on the narrow staircase — a tiny touch that sends a shock through me. In the bay, the fire truck gleams, washed clean by the storm. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, hitting dust motes like glitter suspended in the air.
Everything feels too bright. Too sharp. Too alive.
Ash moves around the kitchen with deliberate, controlled ease — like a man who knows exactly how his body moves in space and exactly how much of that space I’m occupying.
He hands me a mug of steaming coffee and our fingers graze. He doesn’t pull away first. Neither do I.
“You staying for the morning meeting?” he asks, voice calm but threaded with something darker.
“If you want me to.”
His jaw flexes. “I do.”
“Oh.”
He leans against the counter, watching me sip the coffee, eyes tracking my mouth like he can’t help it. I set the mug down too fast.
“I’ll help with whatever you need,” I say.
He inhales like I just hit him. “Yeah. I figured.”
“You did?”
“Lucy,” he says quietly, stepping closer, “you said yes before I even finished asking.”
My face burns. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is to me.”
I look at him. Really look at him. This man who showed up in a blizzard. This man who held my hand in the dark. This man who hasn’t slept because of me. This man who asked me to stay without looking away once.
He’s staring at me now — steady, unfiltered, the way a man stares when he wants something but isn’t sure he’s allowed to have it.
My chest tightens.
“Ash,” I whisper, “I didn’t want to leave.”
His breath falters and his voice drops, low and rough and wrecking.
“I know.”
We don’t move. We don’t touch. But the air between us shifts — warm, heavy, humming with something that feels dangerously close to surrender.
Finally, he clears his throat, dragging a hand through his hair like he needs the distraction. “We should get moving. Parade committee’s expecting us at nine.”
“Right.”
“We’ll take my truck.”
“Of course.”
“And Lucy?”
“Yeah?”
His eyes lock onto mine with quiet, devastating intensity.
“Don’t second-guess your yes.”
I nod. Unable to speak. Unable to do anything except stand there and let the words melt down into the places I’ve been afraid to feel for a long time. He turns toward the garage, grabbing his jacket, and I follow him, pulse pounding, breath unsteady.
The storm outside is over.
The storm in here is just beginning.