Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 19364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 97(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 97(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
I hesitate.
He steps back, giving me room, but his gaze never leaves my face.
“I crossed a line,” he continues. “But it was the only way I knew how to survive loving you without losing you.”
My chest tightens.
“And if you tell me to walk away,” he adds quietly, “I will. But I won’t pretend I didn’t mean every word.”
The storm roars outside, rattling the windows.
I look at him—really look.
The man who’s been there every morning. Every late night. Every quiet moment I didn’t even realize mattered.
“You’re an idiot,” I whisper.
His mouth quirks. “I’ve been called worse.”
I shake my head, torn, breathless, furious and aching all at once.
“This changes everything.”
“Yes,” he says. “It does.”
I turn away before he can see the tears.
Because the worst part isn’t that he lied.
It’s that the man I fell for in those letters was never a fantasy.
He was standing beside me the whole time.
Chapter 9
Dax
“Red.”
She freezes halfway down the hallway.
“I’m not done,” I say. “And you don’t get to walk away thinking I’m anything less than exactly what I am.”
She exhales, sharp and furious. “You’ve already shown me.”
“No,” I counter. “I showed you the truth without the courage. That’s not the same thing.”
She pivots slowly. Her arms are crossed tight, jaw set, eyes bright with anger and something more dangerous—hurt.
“Say what you need to say,” she snaps.
I nod once.
I don’t touch her. Don’t crowd her. Don’t do anything that looks like I’m trying to make this easier on myself.
“I wrote the letters,” I say again, steady. “Every Sunday night. It was my favorite part of every week. And I reread every one of your letters until the paper went soft.”
Her throat works.
“I never meant to trick you,” I continue.
The word lands heavy.
I step closer—not into her space, just enough that she has to acknowledge me.
“I’ve loved you since we were sixteen,” I say. “Since you sat on the hood of my truck and told me you were going to leave Devil’s Peak and never look back.”
Her eyes flick to mine, then away.
“I stayed,” I continue. “And I decided loving you meant more to me than leaving.”
Silence stretches between us, thick with everything I didn’t say for years.
“The letters weren’t a game,” I say quietly. “They were the only place I didn’t lie. Not once.”
“You let me fall for you without giving me the choice,” she whispers.
“I let you see me,” I correct. “All of me. And I was terrified you wouldn’t want that man if he was standing in front of you instead of ink on a page.”
She scoffs. “So you decided for me.”
“Yes.”
The honesty hurts more than defense ever could.
“I didn’t think I deserved you,” I add. “Not as Dax Hayes, the guy who never left town. But as the man who could love you the way you deserve.”
Her shoulders tense.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” I say. “I’m asking you to understand that every word you trusted? I bled for.”
She looks at me then—really looks. Not angry. Not soft. Something raw and searching.
“You watched me fall in love,” she says. “And you let me.”
I swallow. “I fell too.”
“You were already there,” she snaps.
“Yes,” I say. “And it scared the hell out of me.”
Her breath stutters.
“I should hate you,” she says.
“I know.”
“I should walk away.”
“I won’t stop you.”
She steps closer now, invading my space, finger jabbing into my chest. “You don’t get points for honesty after the fact.”
“I’m not asking for points.”
“What are you asking for?”
I meet her gaze. Don’t flinch.
“Time,” I say. “A chance to earn back what I broke. And the right to want you without hiding.”
Her hand stays on my chest. I feel the heat of it through my shirt.
“You don’t get to decide what you mean to me,” she says.
“I never wanted to,” I reply. “I just didn’t think you deserved the kind of guy that runs into fires and risks his life every day.”
Her jaw tightens. “So you’d rather risk destroying me now?”
The words cut deep.
I drop my gaze. “I’d rather burn than lose you.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Then she laughs—soft, broken. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I know.”
She drags a hand through her hair, pacing once, twice. I stay where I am. Let her have the space.
“You didn’t just write letters,” she says. “You rewired how I see love.”
“I wrote what I meant,” I say. “If that’s wrong, I’ll own it forever.”
She stops in front of me again. Close enough that I can smell her—coffee and winter and something uniquely Rory.
“Say it,” she demands.
“Say what?”
“What you were too afraid to write.”
I hesitate only a second.
“I want you,” I say. “Not the idea of you. Not the safe version. I want your mess, your anger, your mornings when the world feels too loud. I want you choosing me when it’s hard.”
Her breath hitches.
“I want to touch you,” I continue, voice low but controlled. “But I won’t unless you ask. I want to kiss you, but I won’t steal that either.”