Page 7 of Jagged Burn (Kidds Beach Fire Department #2)

Almost Isn’t Enough

Stefan Grey

I’m pacing my own damn living room like a caged animal.

Anna’s laughter drifts down the hallway—light, almost hesitant, but it’s there. She’s on the phone with her mom. I only catch snippets, but the sound twists my gut. She’s trying so damn hard to act normal when nothing about this situation is normal. And I’m a wreck.

I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked at me this morning when I handed her the mug of coffee. Like I wasn’t a monster. Like I wasn’t the guy with half a melted face who avoids mirrors because they just confirm what the rest of the world sees.

She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look away. And it scares the hell out of me.

When she pads into the living room, barefoot and drowning in nothing but my damn t-shirt, I nearly lose my grip on the beer bottle in my hand.

My shirt hangs off her shoulder, exposing smooth skin.

Her hair’s in a messy bun, strands falling around her face, and she looks like she belongs here.

Even bruised up she is still more beautiful and sensual than any woman I have ever met.

That thought alone is enough to make me choke.

“You’re pacing holes in the carpet,” she says, plopping onto the couch. “Sit down before I have to call the landlord and explain why there’s a Stefan-shaped groove in the floorboards.”

I grunt, forcing myself into the armchair opposite her. “Don’t have a landlord. I own the house.”

“Even better. You’ll just be the crazy guy with the uneven living room.”

Her sarcasm slices through the heaviness, like it always used to when we were kids. And God help me, I love it.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, desperate for a distraction.

“Starving. But if you’re about to suggest pizza, I’ll fight you. I’ve eaten more greasy cheese in the last year than any human should.”

I lift a brow. “What’s wrong with pizza?”

“Nothing,” she says with a shrug. “Except everything.”

Despite myself, I chuckle. “Fine. Burgers?”

“Better. But only if you make them.”

“You’re still so damn bossy.”

Her eyes glint. “Get used to it.”

I shake my head, but I head into the kitchen anyway. Cooking isn’t my strong suit, but I can grill a burger. As I shape the patties, I feel her presence before I hear her. She’s leaning against the counter, watching me.

“What?” I ask, not looking up.

“Nothing,” she says too quickly.

“Anna.”

She sighs. “You’ve changed.”

My chest tightens. “Yeah, well. Roofs collapsing on you tends to do that.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She steps closer. “You’re quieter now. Harder. Like you built walls around yourself.”

I clench my jaw, flipping a patty. “Maybe I did.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?” The words snap out sharper than I intend. I glance up, instantly regretting it. She’s staring at me like she sees right through every defense I’ve ever built.

And then her gaze drops to my scars. I wait for the flinch.

The pity. The quick look away. But it never comes.

Instead, she reaches up, tentative, and brushes a strand of hair off my forehead, her fingers hovering near the ridged skin.

My throat locks up. I should step back. I should push her hand away. But like a fucking fool, I don’t.

“You’re still you, Stefan,” she whispers. “Scars don’t change that.”

The burn in my chest is almost unbearable. I want to believe her. I want to grab onto those words and never let go. But I know better.

“You say that now.” I force a laugh. “Wait until someone stares when we’re out together. Or whispers. You’ll get sick of it.”

Her brows knit. “Or maybe I’ll get pissed and throw my drink in their face. Ever think of that?”

A laugh breaks out of me, genuine this time. “That I can believe.”

We end up eating at the counter, her stealing fries off my plate like she’s entitled. I let her. Hell, I’d give her the whole damn meal if she asked.

When the plates are empty, the air shifts again. Charged. Heavy. She’s too close, perched on the stool next to mine, her thigh naked brushing against my covered one. I can feel the warmth of her through the fabric.

“Stefan?” she murmurs.

“Yeah?”

Her hand slides over mine on the counter. Gentle. Certain.

I turn toward her, and suddenly her face is right there. Big stormy eyes. Pink lips. Bruises that make my stomach clench with rage. She should look broken, but she doesn’t. She looks fierce. Determined.

And God help me, I want her.

My body leans in before my brain can stop it. Our noses almost touch. Her breath mixes with mine. Her gaze drops to my mouth. If I kiss her now, there is no coming back.

Her lips part, an invitation, a siren calling me to her. I want to take it. I need to take it. But at the last second, I jerk back, shoving out of the stool so hard it screeches against the tile.

Her eyes widen, hurt flashing across her face. “What—”

“I can’t.” My voice is raw, scraped out of me. “Not like this. You’re vulnerable. I’m ... me. This isn’t—”

“Bullshit,” she snaps, standing too. “Don’t you dare blame me for your fear.”

Her words slice straight through me. I can’t argue because she’s right. I’m terrified. Not of her. Of myself. Of letting her in, then watching her regret it.

“Anna...” I rake a hand through my hair, desperate for air. “You don’t understand.”

Her chin tilts stubbornly. “Then make me.”

I want to. Christ, I want to. But all I can see is my reflection in her eyes, scarred and jagged and not enough. So, I do the only thing I know how. I walk away.

I hear her curse under her breath as I retreat down the hall. But her voice follows, sharp as glass. “You can keep running, Stefan. But you can’t outrun me.”

The bedroom door shuts behind me, and I lean against it, chest heaving. Almost. I almost kissed her. I almost let myself believe. But almost isn’t enough.

Not for her. Not for me.

And neither am I.