He notices everything. “Should I call you something else?”
“Yeah,” I say, lifting my chin. “Artist. Ceramicist. Maker. Chaos goblin.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
Not a smile. Not even close. More like his facial muscles had an accident and almost formed one.
“Chaos goblin,” he repeats, voice a shade warmer. “Fits.”
“Thanks,” I snap. “You mountain caveman.”
He actually exhales a little laugh through his nose, like I annoyed him into amusement. “You always this mouthy?”
“You always this bossy?”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” I huff, tugging his jacket back over my shoulders because now that I’ve had warmth, I do in fact need it, “me too.”
He watches me for a second, eyes narrowing like he’s figuring me out, cataloguing me, filing me under “problems to manage.”
Then he looks back at the building.
The flames are dying now, water steam-blasting the windows. My cute little wreath is ash. I want to cry again.
“Can I—” My voice breaks. I clear it. “Can I at least go see when it’s out? I need to know what’s left.”
He hesitates. I see the answer on his face:No, it’s a scene, it’s not safe, stay back, ma’am.
I cut him off. “Don’t you dare tell me to go home.”
“Do you even have a home?” he asks, brow lifting.
“I have a loft above the studio,” I say tightly.
Silence.
He looks at the studio.
Then back at me.
And I swear to God, the way his jaw works—it’s sympathy and frustration and that protective thing I do not want.
“Yeah,” he says. “Thought so.”
“I can stay with friends,” I rush to add. “I’m not a stray.”
His eyes do that slow roll down my body again—boots, paint-splattered jeans, oversized sweater, hair half up with a pencil stabbed through it, smoke film on my skin.
“You look like a stray,” he says.
“You look like you stepped out of a Chippendales calendar,” I shoot back.
That gets him. His mouth curves, slow and wicked, and I get a flash of dimples I did not sign up for.
“You flirting with the guy who just saved your ass?” he asks, voice dropping a fraction.
“Are you flirting with the girl whose life just burned down?” I counter.
