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)
He leans closer. “Firefly.”
“Yes?”
“You’re impossible.”
I grin. “You’re still here.”
He looks at me like I’m the answer to something he didn’t know how to ask.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I am.”
Chapter Seven
Boone
By late afternoon, the studio goes quiet in a way that feels earned.
Tools are lined up instead of scattered. The wiring panel hums clean and obedient. Sunlight slants through the big back windows, catching dust motes and paint flecks like they’re suspended on purpose. Ember sits on the edge of the worktable, swinging one bare foot, watching me coil extension cords.
She’s been watching me all day.
Not obvious. Not greedy. Just… present. Like she’s cataloging something she doesn’t quite understand yet.
“You always work this fast?” she asks.
“When I know what I’m doing.”
“That was a dig.”
“Observation,” I correct, without looking at her.
She laughs, bright and unguarded. “You’re impossible.”
I grin. “You like it.”
The quiet stretches. Comfortable. That’s new.
“You didn’t have to do all that.”
I clear my throat. “I wanted to.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Her gaze sharpens. “You’re bad at receiving.”
“I’m bad at owing.”
She studies me for a second, then nods like she’s filed that away for later. “Okay. Then consider dinner a thank-you.”
“For the wiring.”
“For staying.”
I don’t have a comeback for that.
I set the cords aside and lean against the counter. “You asked before. About the scars.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rush. Just waits.
“I was Army before the firehouse,” I say. “Explosives. Clearance. Learned to read damage, patterns. Fire made sense after that. Same rules. Same language.”
Her voice is soft. “You loved it.”
“I loved being useful. When I got out,” I continue, “firefighting gave me the same hit. Purpose. Brotherhood. Adrenaline. Felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.” I flex my shoulder unconsciously. “Then the explosion happened. Warehouse job. Bad intel. Wrong read.”
Her jaw tightens.
“I lived,” I say. “Barely. Took months before I could lift my arm without wanting to scream. Doctors cleared me, but…” I shrug. “You don’t come back the same. Loud noises get in your head. Smoke doesn’t feel like home anymore.”
She steps closer. Her hand hovers, then settles against my forearm. Warm. Steady.
“What hurt the most,” I add, “was being taken off the line. Being told I was better suited behind a desk. Arson investigation. Mechanic work. Important, sure. But it felt like losing my name.”
She swallows. “That doesn’t make you less.”
“It did to me.”
The words sit between us. Heavy. Honest.
She squeezes my arm once. “You’re still saving people.”
“From a distance.”
“Maybe,” she says gently, “but you’re still standing in the fire.”
I look at her then. Really look.
God help me.
“You’re lucky,” she says suddenly, softer. “To have the firehouse.”
“They’re family,” I say without thinking. “Only one I’ve got. Parents moved south years ago. Only child. These guys… they’re it.”
“And now they’re all pairing off,” she adds, perceptive as hell.
I huff. “Yeah. Makes holidays awkward.”
She frowns. “You don’t do holidays?”
“I work through them.”
“That’s sad.”
I bristle. “It’s efficient.”
She steps into my space, hands on her hips. “Holidays add sparkle, Boone. Even when life’s a mess.”
“Says the woman who bleeds glitter.”
She grins. “Guilty.”
Her smile dims just a fraction. “I used to love them more. Before my mom died.”
I stay quiet.
“When it’s just me now,” she continues, “I make her sausage lasagna. Big ridiculous Italian feast. Like she’s still there.”
My chest tightens.
“I was going to make it tonight actually,” she says casually. “If you want to stay…”
I should say no.
I don’t.
“Yeah,” I say. “I want to stay.”
Her answering smile knocks the breath out of me.
Cooking with Ember is chaos with a heartbeat.
She cranks music. Dances between the stove and the counter. Smears sauce on her cheek and forgets about it. I brown sausage while she stirs, our elbows bumping, hips brushing like accidents that happen too often to be chance.
“You’re crowding me,” she says, laughing.
“You’re flailing.”
“It’s called enthusiasm.”
“It’s called a safety hazard.”
She flicks sauce at me.
I catch her wrist mid-throw. The moment freezes. Her eyes go wide. My thumb presses into the soft inside of her wrist.
We don’t breathe.
“Firefly,” I murmur. “Behave.”
She swallows. “Make me.”
I release her slowly. The charge lingers like ozone.
Dinner is loud and warm and stupidly good. We eat too much. Argue about whether garlic bread counts as its own food group. Clean up together, shoulders touching, hands brushing, neither of us stepping back.
Afterward, I gesture toward the back of the studio. “You mentioned a tour.”
Her eyes light up. “Yeah. Come on.”
The back room is all windows and light. Canvases stacked against the walls. Jars of brushes. Watercolor palettes stained with years of use. It smells like paper and pigment and something deeply personal.
“This is where the kids paint,” she says. “Big tables. Natural light. Mess encouraged.”
I step closer, drawn in. “You built all this.”
She nods. “Art’s just another way to make people feel fed.”
I smile despite myself. “You’re dangerous.”
She laughs, then reaches for a brush. Dips it into red. Then orange. Then black.