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 doesn’t interrupt. Just turns her body toward mine, knee brushing mine, warmth bleeding through denim.
“But today,” I continue, “I remembered something.”
“What?” she asks.
“That fire tells the truth.”
Her brow furrows. “That sounds ominous.”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “It’s not. Or maybe it is. Depends on the day.”
I look at my hands. Scarred. Strong. Still mine. “Fire shows what’s real. What burns away wasn’t meant to last.”
Her fingers slide into mine before I realize I reached for her. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pull back.
“So what burned away?” she asks quietly.
“The lie,” I say. “That I was done living.”
She inhales, sharp. I feel it like a pulse.
“I’ve been afraid,” I admit. The words scrape on the way out. “Not of getting hurt again. Of wanting again. Of needing something enough that losing it would wreck me.”
Her thumb strokes the back of my hand, slow and steady. “And me?”
“Yes,” I say without flinching. “You.”
The studio hums around us. Outside, the mountain settles, night creeping in like a held breath.
“I don’t want to rescue you,” she says after a beat. “And I don’t want to be rescued.”
Good. God, that’s good.
“I don’t need fixing,” I tell her. “I need—”
“Someone to stand beside you,” she finishes.
I look at her then. Really look. The paint on her cheek. The quiet strength under the sparkle. The way she never once tried to drag me into the light—just turned it on and trusted me to find my way.
“Yes,” I say. “That.”
She lifts our joined hands, presses them to her chest. I feel her heartbeat. Fast. Alive.
“I choose you,” she says simply. “As you are. Scars and shadows and all.”
The words land like a promise and a challenge.
I lean in, close enough that my breath ghosts her lips. She doesn’t move away. Her eyes darken, mouth parting just slightly.
“Firefly,” I murmur. “If I start…”
“I know,” she whispers. “That’s why I’m still here.”
I kiss her then.
Not a claiming. Not a frenzy. A truth.
Her lips are warm, soft, sure. She kisses back like she means it, hands sliding up my chest, fingers curling into my shirt. The kiss deepens, heat building, and I feel it—the pull, the ache, the need to take and hold and never let go.
I break it before it turns into something else.
She groans softly, forehead dropping to my shoulder. “You have infuriating control.”
I chuckle, low. “Don’t mistake restraint for lack of desire.”
Her laugh is breathless. “Noted.”
I brush my thumb along her jaw, tilt her face up. “I’m not running,” I tell her. “But I’m not rushing either. I want this right.”
She nods, eyes bright. “Me too.”
We sit there, tangled and steady, until the night wraps around the studio and the fear finally loosens its grip.
Fire didn’t destroy me.
It revealed her.
And I’m done hiding from the truth.
Chapter Fourteen
Ember
The firehouse smells like home cooked casseroles and warm coffee and pastries.
I pace the edge of the bay while the kids line up in front of the curtain we rigged from old turnout tarps, their sneakers squeaking, their fingers smudged with paint they absolutely did not wipe on their pants like I asked. The crowd hums—Devil’s Peak turning out in flannel and dress uniforms, laughter bouncing off steel and concrete, the fundraiser banner strung crooked but proud.
Boone stands a few feet away, arms folded, weight favoring his good leg. He pretends to be stoic. Fails. His jaw works like he’s chewing something sharp. When he catches me watching, his mouth tilts.
“Firefly,” he says under his breath. “You pacing holes in the floor?”
“Maybe,” I say. “If I do, you’ll fix them, right?”
“Always fixing something,” he murmurs. “You included.”
I arch a brow. “I’m not broken.”
His eyes go dark and warm. “Never said you were.”
Captain Saxon claps his hands for attention. The noise cuts through the room, and the kids snap to it, eyes bright. Boone’s shoulders square. He looks like he’s bracing for impact.
“This is your moment,” I whisper.
He snorts. “I hate moments.”
“Liar,” I say. “You just don’t like being seen.”
He doesn’t answer. He watches the kids instead—watches the way they bounce, the way one of them grips the rope like it might run away. I slide my hand into his. He lets me. His thumb presses into my knuckle, grounding.
Saxon gives the nod.
The tarps drop.
Color explodes.
Gasps ripple across the bay. Someone whistles. Someone else laughs and swipes at their eyes like it’s dust. The mural stretches across the wall—firefighters in motion, faces fierce and tender, flames curling around them not as monsters but as raw material, reshaped into light. Yellows bleed into golds. Reds soften into dawn. A ladder arcs like a spine toward the sky.
The kids beam, chests puffed.
Boone goes still.
I watch the moment land on him. The way his breath catches. The way his fingers tighten around mine. He leans forward half an inch, as if pulled by a magnet he didn’t know existed.