“Well, well,” he drawls. “If it isn’t our new favorite fire chief. You sticking around for s’mores?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
He winks at Lanie. “You bringing the good chocolate this time, or are we still pretending the discount stuff melts the same?”
She tosses a marshmallow bag at his chest. “You wanna eat or complain?”
“I can do both.”
Chase laughs and leaves us to it. I take over splitting the logs because it’s second nature. Lanie pretends not to watch—but I catch her eyes flick to my arms more than once. The axe bites through the wood cleanly. It feels good to do something physical again.
By the time the fire crackles to life, the boys are in pajamas, faces already sticky with chocolate. Huck’s telling an elaborate story about rescuing pumpkins from an evil scarecrow. TJ nods solemnly, holding a marshmallow like a microphone.
I can’t remember the last time I saw my kid this happy.
When Lanie hands me a mug of hot cider, our fingers brush. That spark again—quiet, but insistent. She sits beside me on the bench, close enough that our knees touch.
“They’re good together,” she says.
“Yeah. It’s nice. Reminds me why we came back.”
She turns toward me. “You lived here before?”
“Born here,” I say. “Moved to Anchorage for a while when I joined the department. Then… divorce happened, and I wanted TJ to have roots somewhere that felt steady.”
Her expression softens. “You and your ex… Do you get along?”
“Most days,” I say with a chuckle. “We figured out we’re better partners in parenting than in marriage. She’s remarried now to a good guy. TJ loves him. It took me a while to make peace with not having him around all the time, but you learn pretty quick that resentment’s just dead weight. We both want what’s best for our son.”
“That’s really healthy.” Her voice catches like she doesn’t quite believe it. “Not many people talk about their exes like that.”
“I figure, if I can run into burning buildings for strangers, I can manage to be kind to the mother of my kid.”
She laughs—really laughs—and it’s the best sound I’ve heard all week.
“What about you?” I ask. “What about Huck’s dad?”
Her jaw tightens, but after a long moment she sighs.
“He left when Huck was two months old. Said he wasn’t cut out for the small-town life. Six months later, he was married to someone else and playing stepdad to her kids.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
“Don’t be. We’re fine.” She pokes the fire with a stick. “I just stopped expecting people to stick around. I learned to take care of myself.”
The flames crackle between us, bright and warm. I want to tell her not everyone leaves. I want to promise that I wouldn’t. But promises are dangerous things, and she looks like she’s had her fill of broken ones.
Instead, I say, “You’re doing a damn good job, you know. Huck’s a great kid.”
Her throat works. “Thanks.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full—like the air before a storm. The boys are in their sleeping bags now, whispering secrets, the fire burning low. When I glance at her, the glow of it paints her face gold.
She’s beautiful. Real.
Without thinking, I reach over and brush a streak of chocolate from her cheek. “You missed a spot.”
Her breath catches. “So did you.”
