Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 24365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
As he turns for the door, he glances back at me. “Nice to finally meet you properly, Ember.”
I nod, mortified. “Likewise.”
The door shuts.
Silence crashes back into the studio, heavier than before.
I let out a shaky breath. “Well.”
Boone drags a hand down his face. “That went great.”
I laugh despite myself, the sound a little hysterical. “Your friends are… thorough.”
“Nosy fucks,” he corrects.
I glance at the paint on his arm, the way it contrasts with his skin. “You didn’t deny anything.”
He looks at me sharply.
“Didn’t feel like lying,” he says.
My chest does a dangerous little flip.
We stand there, awkward now, the moment cracked open but not gone. It hums under the surface, undeniable.
“I should… clean up,” I say.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “I should, too.”
Neither of us moves.
His gaze drops to my collarbone again, to the pastel strokes drying there. “Those colors,” he says quietly. “They suit you.”
I meet his eyes. “Yours suit you too.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Careful, Firefly.”
“Why?”
“Because next time,” he says, voice low and steady, “I won’t stop when someone knocks.”
My breath catches.
“Next time?” I manage.
He steps back then, giving me space, giving himself restraint. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The door closes behind him before I can say another word.
I stand alone in my studio, heart racing, paint drying on my skin like a promise.
Interrupted.
But not undone.
Chapter Nine
Boone
I don’t go back into my workshop.
That’s how I know I’m in trouble.
I walk past it, past the familiar clang and oil and quiet that usually soothes me, and jump in my truck, turning the ignition and pulling out of the driveway in the direction of the mountain. I keep driving until Devil’s Peak thins into trees and snow and nothing. The truck hums beneath my hands, steady and real, but my head is still in Ember’s studio—paint on her skin, her laugh catching in her throat, the way she looked at me like I wasn’t something broken she had to tiptoe around.
That look scares the hell out of me.
I pull off near the ridge road and kill the engine. The silence hits hard. Too loud. I rest my forehead against the steering wheel and breathe until my pulse stops trying to climb out of my chest.
Firefly.
I shouldn’t have let it go that far. Shouldn’t have taken the brush. Shouldn’t have touched her at all. I know better than this. I know what happens when I let myself want something—when I let myself imagine a future instead of just surviving the next day.
I see her with the kids before I mean to. Barefoot on paint-splattered floors, laughing when someone knocks over a water jar, kneeling to show a kid how to blend blue into gold. She belongs in that light. She belongs in a room full of color and noise and life.
I don’t.
That’s the part that claws at me.
Because the truth is, she fits too easily into the empty spaces I pretend aren’t there anymore. She slides right into them like she was made for it. Like she’s the piece I stopped letting myself look for after the explosion, after the doctors told me what wouldn’t ever work the same again.
Power.
That’s what it is. She has power over me just by existing, by being bright and kind and unafraid to see me. And I don’t trust anything that can shake me this fast.
I start the truck again and head home, jaw tight the whole way.
The house is dark when I get there. Too quiet. I shrug off my jacket and toss it on the chair, pacing once before I force myself to stop. I grab a beer I don’t really want and lean against the counter, staring at nothing.
I tell myself this is smart. Necessary. A retreat before I do something I can’t undo.
Tomorrow, I’ll keep my distance. I’ll be polite. Professional. Grumpy, even. I’ll let the charge burn itself out.
That’s the plan.
It lasts exactly twelve hours.
The next morning, the studio door is already open when I step outside, steam curling from my coffee. Music drifts out—something upbeat and impossible to ignore. Ember’s voice floats with it, singing off-key and proud.
I stop without meaning to.
She’s inside with a half-dozen kids, all wearing oversized smocks and grins, hands streaked with paint. She’s crouched in the middle of them, demonstrating a brushstroke with exaggerated seriousness.
“No stabbing the paper,” she says. “We’re painting mountains, not enemies.”
A kid snorts. Another giggles. Ember looks up then and spots me through the window.
Her smile falters.
Just a little.
Enough that I feel it like a hook under my ribs.
She straightens, brushes paint off her hands, and steps outside. “Morning.”
“Morning,” I reply.
There’s a pause. Not awkward—careful.
“You good?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah. Just… had an early start.”
Her eyes flick to my face like she’s reading something there. “You disappeared last night.”
I shrug. “Needed air.”
“Right,” she says. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t tease. That somehow makes it worse.