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)
“Boone,” I whisper. “Look closer.”
He scans the mural, eyes tracing lines, shadows, the tiny details the kids insisted on adding. Then he sees it—his name tucked into the corner in red, almost shy, almost secret.
LAWSON.
He swallows hard.
“They—” His voice breaks. He clears it, tries again. “They spelled it right.”
I smile into his shoulder. “They practiced.”
The kids chatter, pointing out their favorite parts. One of them—freckled, missing a tooth—pipes up. “That’s you,” he says, jabbing a finger at a figure hauling a hose, flames bending into a sunrise. “You make fire behave.”
Boone drops to a crouch without thinking, meeting the kid at eye level. “Fire never behaves,” he says gently. “You just learn how to listen.”
The kid nods like this is the most important truth he’s ever heard.
Applause breaks out. Loud. Earnest. The kind that presses on your chest.
Boone stands. He turns to me and pulls me in, no hesitation, no audience awareness. His arm wraps around my shoulders, solid and sure, my cheek pressed to his chest. He kisses the top of my head, slow and reverent.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. “For this. For them.”
“For you,” I say. “You’re already part of something bigger.”
“I see that now.” He drops a tender kiss on the top of my head. “Captain confirmed that it was a group of teenagers that lit the fire in your garage. They also tried to light up the principal’s garage—joke’s on them because Principal Mason has security cameras. Captain already visited their parents and negotiated some community service time off the record—cleanup on the highways and helping out around the firehouse—you don’t have to worry about anything happening again.”
“Thank you,” I murmur against him. “I’m glad you were there.”
“Me too, Firefly.” He pulls me closer, kissing my forehead and causing warmth to bloom in my chest. “I’ll always be there.”
The rest of the night moves like a tide—donations clink into jars, kids show off sketches, Savannah presses cookies into hands, Axel ribs Boone about smiling like he’s swallowed a star. Boone takes it all in, present, steady. When someone claps him on the back, he doesn’t flinch.
Later, when the crowd thins and the lights dim to a warm glow, he pulls me aside near the mural.
“I’m going back,” he says.
“To the station?” I ask.
“Fully,” he says. “Not the way I was. Not pretending I can outrun what happened. As the man I am now.”
Scarred. Capable. Unhidden.
My chest tightens. “You sure?”
His gaze holds mine. “I’m done hiding.”
The band starts up outside, a low thrum of strings and laughter. Boone’s hand settles at my waist. Possessive. Gentle. He leans in, voice low.
“You knew,” he says. “You built this so I’d have a place to stand.”
I shrug. “Artists are sneaky.”
He laughs, rough and real, and then he kisses me—public, unapologetic, just enough heat to make my knees go soft. When he pulls back, his eyes burn.
“Dance with me,” he says.
“Right here?” I ask.
“Right here.”
We stand and begin a slow sway in front of the mural, bodies close, the music wrapping around us. His hand slides up my back, fingers splayed like he’s memorizing the curve of my spine. I breathe him in—soap and smoke and something like home.
“You’re dangerous,” I tell him.
He smirks. “You love it.”
“Maybe,” I say. “You’re also mine.”
His grip tightens. “That’s not a problem.”
We move until the music fades and the kids yawn and Saxon flicks the lights. Boone doesn’t let go until we step into the cold, stars sharp above Devil’s Peak. He drapes his jacket over my shoulders without asking.
“Firefly,” he says, voice soft now. “I don’t know what comes next.”
I look at him—at the man who learned to listen to fire, who chose to step into light without burning. “We’ll make it,” I say. “Together.”
He nods. Then he kisses me again, slow and certain, beneath a mural that proves what fire can become when you refuse to be afraid of it.
And for the first time, I believe it.
An hour later, Boone carries me into my studio, depositing me on the hardest sofa in existence.
I feel his lips press softly against mine, warmth flooding me as his fingers twist gently through my hair. A low moan tumbles from my throat, vibrating against his mouth. When he pulls back just enough for me to hear, he breathes, “Touch yourself for me,” and I feel a jolt of surprise— my hands trembling at my sides. “I want to see you touch yourself.”
My voice catches. “I-I…okay.”
My heart pounds under his hot gaze.
Watching him, so hungry and patient, shifts something inside of me. He’s seeing me—truly seeing me—for the first time, and I’m suspended between fear and desire. When he lifts my T-shirt in slow, deliberate movements, I realize I’m as raw and untouched as he believes.
Heat floods my cheeks as his hand guides mine down the smooth slope of my thigh. Our fingertips brush the elastic of my panties under my skirt, and my breath hitches; my heart pounds, loud and eager beneath his touch.