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)
“I’ll—uh—I’ll let you get back to it,” I say.
She hesitates, then smiles anyway. “Okay. See you later, Grump.”
Firefly. Bright even when she shouldn’t be.
I walk away before I do something stupid, like pull her into my arms or tell her exactly how much space she’s taking up in my head.
By afternoon, the firehouse is buzzing. Saxon’s voice echoes down the bay, Ash is laughing too loud, Axel is arguing about wiring diagrams. It should ground me.
It doesn’t.
Savannah leans against the counter, watching me over her coffee. “You look like hell.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” I say.
She smirks. “Ember was asking about you.”
I stiffen. “Was she.”
“Relax,” Axel says, clapping me on the shoulder. “She just wanted to know if you were avoiding her on purpose or if you’re always like this.”
“Always like what?” I snap.
Ash snorts. “Terrified of good things.”
I glare at him. He just lifts his mug in salute.
Saxon watches me quietly. “Boone.”
“Yeah.”
“If you need time, take it,” he says. “Just don’t torch something that might matter because you’re scared.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
That evening, I don’t go to Ember’s studio.
I work late. Fix an engine that doesn’t need fixing. Reorganize tools that were already in order. Anything to keep my hands busy and my head quiet.
It doesn’t work.
Around nine, there’s a knock on my door.
I freeze.
Another knock, lighter this time. “Boone? It’s me.”
I open it before I think better of it.
She stands there with a plate wrapped in foil, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair pulled back in a messy knot that does dangerous things to my focus.
“I made extra,” she says. “Pasta bolognese. You mentioned liking Italian.”
I stare at the plate like it might explode.
“You didn’t have to,” I say.
“I know,” she replies. “I wanted to.”
I step aside, letting her in. The air shifts immediately, charged and quiet.
She sets the plate down and turns to face me. “Did I do something?”
“No.”
“You pulled back.”
I don’t deny it.
She crosses her arms. “I don’t chase people who don’t want to be caught.”
A sharp smile tugs at my mouth. “Good.”
Her eyes flash. “Good?”
“Because if you did,” I say carefully, “I wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Silence stretches between us.
She steps closer. “You’re afraid.”
I laugh once, humorless. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
“I know enough,” she says. “You don’t like how much you feel.”
She’s not wrong. That’s the problem.
I take a breath. “Firefly… I don’t do half-measures. If I let myself step into something, I’m all in. And I don’t trust that right now.”
“Why?” she asks softly.
Because I’ve lost before. Because I’m not the man I used to be. Because I want you enough it scares me.
I give her the version that won’t gut us both. “Because I’m not good at… easy.”
She studies me for a long moment. Then she nods. “Okay.”
Okay.
No argument. No guilt. Just understanding.
She picks up her coat. “Bolognese’s for later. When you’re ready to stop hiding.”
She pauses at the door. “For what it’s worth, Boone… I don’t see broken when I look at you.”
The door closes behind her.
I stand there a long time, the house suddenly too quiet, her words settling into me like embers.
Pulling back doesn’t stop the fire.
It just makes it burn slower.
And deeper.
Chapter Ten
Ember
The idea comes to me at dawn, which is how I know it’s dangerous.
I’m standing barefoot in the studio, coffee cooling on the worktable, light spilling through the big back windows Boone helped clear. The room still smells faintly like paint and sawdust and him. My chest tightens at the thought, equal parts ache and thrill.
Fire & Rescue Fundraiser Art Show.
It lands fully formed, bright and reckless and impossible to ignore.
Not a spectacle. Not tragedy porn. A community thing. Kids’ art. Local artists. Stories of resilience. Of heat survived. Of rebuilding. Boone’s words from yesterday echo in my head—how fire took his purpose and left him standing in the ash, trying to remember who he was without it.
I don’t want to fix him.
I want to stand beside him.
By noon, the flyers are drafted. By two, I’ve talked to the town council. By four, I’ve roped in half the parents of my art kids, who immediately start texting about baking and booths and donations.
By five, Boone finds out.
He storms into the studio like a weather system.
The door bangs hard enough to rattle the windows. I turn from the easel just in time to see him fill the doorway, jaw tight, eyes dark, shoulders wound so taut they look like they might snap.
“What is this?” he demands, holding up one of the flyers.
I blink. “Hi to you too.”
“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like this is nothing.” He steps inside, boots thudding on the concrete. “You didn’t think to mention this to me?”
I set my brush down slowly. “I was going to.”
“When?” His laugh is sharp. “After you plastered my worst memories all over town?”
That hits. Hard.