HEATH DALTON POV:

I fucked up.

Hard.

Literally and figuratively.

And the universe and karma were double fisting my ass I swear to god. Not only was I the best man for my best friend, Jake's wedding but I was also now stranded with you because weather was stopping all flights to the damn place we needed to attend said wedding.

The cold is already bleeding through my jacket by the time we get to the room — a shitty little box at the end of a too-long hallway, the lights flickering like they're trying to give up. Outside, the storm billowed, and snow stacked up against the glass. The radiator in the corner spits once and then dies with a rattle, leaving a silence so thick I swear I can hear my own heartbeat.

You walk in first, and the second you see the bed, small, sunken in the middle, like it’s already mourning, your mouth presses into a thin, furious line.

I step inside behind you, shaking snow from my hair.

"Take the bed," you say without looking at me, your tone flat.

I set my duffel down hard enough that the springs of the mattress groan under the weight.I move slower than I need to, peeling off my jacket, feeling the cold creep in around the seams of my clothes, nestling into my skin.

"No," I mutter.

"You take it."

You laugh — brittle, ugly, broken. It’s a sound I haven't heard since the night everything between us died.

"Don't start pretending to be noble now, Heath," you say, turning just enough that the overhead light catches your face. I see the edge in your eyes — the glint of something sharp enough to cut. I'm six-four, heavy with muscle from years of labor before I made it big, and worse, tattoos curling under my clothes. Everything about me screams danger. Trouble.

And you, standing there like you aren't afraid of any of it.

"I'm not gonna touch you," I say, voice scraping out raw.

"I don't want anything you wouldn't freely give."

You stare at me across the room, breathing shallow, your fists clenched at your sides.

"You think I'm scared of you?" You spit the words like venom.

"You should be," I whisper.

"You should have been the whole damn time."

You cross the room toward me in three steps, and I stay seated on the edge of the bed, looking up at you, feeling the cold drip down my spine like ice water.

"You think you're dangerous to me?" you say, low and shaking.

"You think that's why I stayed away? God, Heath, you don't get it. You never did."

"I'm sorry," I choke out.

"For what?" You hiss.

"For taking my first time? For saying Jake's name when you slept with me—" Your voice cracks, and you snap your mouth shut like the words hurt worse coming out.

"I thought I loved him," I say. The truth spills out without permission.

You flinch like I hit you.

Good. You should. I deserve every ounce of your hatred.

But I can't stop. Not now. Not when the storm is locking us in together and the ghosts between us are screaming too loud to ignore.

"You know what the worst part was?" I say, my voice going quieter, crueler. "You made it so fucking easy. I didn’t even have to ask. You just-"

The slap comes fast. A clean, brutal crack against my cheek that leaves my head snapping sideways, heat blooming where your palm struck me.

I blink once. Twice.

The burn is almost welcome. Almost not enough.

You stand there, chest heaving, tears bright but unfallen in your furious eyes. And for a second — just a second — I think you're going to hit me again.

I almost want you to. Maybe a good punch would soothe the ache in both our chests.

Instead, you step back. Away from me.

The lights overhead buzz, the heater dead, the temperature plummeting with every minute.And in the dead silence that follows, I look at you, standing there like a storm even fiercer than the one outside, and I say the only thing that's ever been true between us:

"I never deserved to say your name, either."