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)
She’s right.
Boone barely registers anyone else as he walks Saxon through what he sees, pointing out burn patterns, residue, the way the scorch marks climb but don’t consume.
“Accelerant,” he says flatly. “Small amount. Placed low. Whoever did this wanted smoke, not destruction.”
Saxon’s jaw tightens. “Message?”
Boone nods once. “Maybe.”
I hug myself, suddenly cold despite the morning sun. This space—my space—feels violated. The place where I bring kids to make messy, beautiful things nearly went up in flames because someone decided it should.
Boone turns then, finally really looks at me, and the shift is immediate. The intensity softens, funnels into something sharp and personal.
“You hurt?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “Just scared.”
He closes the distance without thinking, one hand landing on my shoulder, thumb pressing in like he’s grounding both of us. The contact sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear.
“I won’t let anything happen to this place,” he says quietly. “Or you.”
The words are simple. The promise is not.
Saxon clears his throat. “We’ll run it official, Boone.”
“I know,” Boone says. “I want to walk it again when you’re done.”
Saxon studies him for a second, then nods. “Take the lead.”
And just like that, something settles into place. The men move around him with trust that’s been earned the hard way. Boone doesn’t hesitate. He directs, observes, questions. He’s alive in a way I haven’t seen yet, like the fire didn’t take this part of him—it only buried it.
I watch from the edge, heart pounding, pride swelling unexpectedly.
An hour later, the trucks are gone. The garage is taped off. The air smells clean again.
Boone walks back to me slowly, exhaustion edging his movements but something steady anchoring him now.
“You okay?” he asks again.
“I think so,” I say. “You?”
He exhales. “Yeah.”
The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid.
“You were incredible,” I blurt.
He snorts. “You make it sound like a trick.”
“I mean it,” I say. “You stepped right back into it. Like you never left.”
His gaze drops, then lifts to mine. “I did leave.”
“But you came back,” I say softly.
His mouth curves, just barely. “For you.”
My breath catches.
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell smoke on his clothes, feel the heat he hasn’t burned off yet.
“Firefly,” he murmurs. “This scared you.”
“Yes.”
“I hate that.”
“I know.”
He lifts a hand, hesitates, then cups my jaw, thumb warm against my skin. It’s not a kiss. It’s not even a move toward one. It’s a moment—charged, reverent, dangerous.
“I’m here,” he says. “And I’m not disappearing.”
I swallow, nodding. “Good.”
He leans in, forehead resting against mine, breath warm and steady. For a second, the world narrows to this—smoke and sunlight, fear and relief, the quiet hum of something being reclaimed.
Then he pulls back, just enough to smile at me with that crooked, infuriating charm.
“Looks like your studio’s got a guard dog now.”
I laugh shakily. “You don’t bark.”
“No,” he says. “I bite.”
The spark between us flares—not destructive, not consuming. Alive.
Chapter Thirteen
Boone
The garage still smells like smoke when the sun drops behind Devil’s Peak. The tape flutters in the evening wind, bright and ugly against the quiet. Saxon said the official report would take time. I said fine. I already know what I need to know. So far it looks like a prank pulled by some teenagers, but that won’t make Ember feel any better.
I cross the yard with a limp I pretend isn’t there, boots crunching over gravel. Ember’s studio windows glow warm—lamps on, paint drying, the low hum of music I don’t recognize but somehow already know belongs to her. Color lives in there. Breath. Noise.
I hesitate at the door.
Fear still knows my name. It wraps around my chest, squeezes just enough to remind me how easy it would be to retreat—to go back to the quiet, to engines and shadows, to the version of me that keeps his head down and his heart boarded up.
But fire doesn’t just burn.
It exposes.
I knock once and don’t wait for an answer.
Ember looks up from a table splattered in blues and rusted oranges, paint on her fingers, hair loose like she forgot to tame it after the chaos of the day. She freezes when she sees me, then her shoulders drop.
“Hey,” she says softly.
“Hey, Firefly.”
She sets the brush down carefully, like the moment deserves it. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You?”
She studies my face, eyes sharp in that way she has—seeing past the words. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
I shut the door behind me. The click sounds louder than it should.
“I need to talk,” I say.
Her smile fades, replaced by attention. Real attention. She nods and gestures to the couch—the terrible one we laughed about yesterday, stiff and awkward and somehow already ours.
We sit too close. Or maybe not close enough.
Silence stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable. She waits me out. Always does.
“I’ve spent a long time thinking fire was the enemy,” I say finally. “Like it took everything from me. My job. My body. The part of me that knew how to move without thinking.”