“Fire Guy,” he says, saluting Van with a bottle, then aims one at me. “You two made it cozy, huh?”
“Go away, Chase,” I say without heat.
“Fine, fine.” He backs up a step, still smirking. “Need me to move the sleeping gremlins to the office couch?”
“I’ve got them,” I say, but Van is already on his way. He lifts TJ like it’s nothing, one broad forearm under the kid’s knees, the other steady across his back. Something in my chest gets tender and dangerous at once.
I scoop Huck with the practiced, lopsided hold that won’t wake his inner dragon. We deposit both boys in the office—the warmest building after hours—on the couch under the ugly but soft plaid blanket. I set the baby monitor on a shelf. I haven’t used one on my son in years, but it’s handy to have one in moments like this.
Outside again, the night feels more private, like the farm belongs to just us and the stars.
I lean against the railing and cross my arms. I should say it now. Put the line back where we both stepped over it.
“Van.”
He takes the hint immediately, positioning himself on the other end of the railing, respectful distance, hands hooked in his back pockets. “Yeah.”
“I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t say I regretted it,” I add, because honesty is the worst and best policy. “But like I said, I don’t have space for anything. Not right now. Not with the festival, and the farm, and Huck, and—” I exhale. “All of it.”
“Hey.” He gentles the word, no argument in it. “I heard you yesterday. I hear you now.”
I nod, grateful and somehow sadder. He isn’t pushy. He isn’t wounded pride or defensiveness. He’s a good guy. That’s the problem. Good men are harder to resist because they don’t give you reasons to set them on fire.
But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to live with them. I have three brothers that prove it.
“I can be your friend,” he says. “I’m good at showing up. It’s basically in my job description.”
A laugh escapes me, surprised and a little shaky. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not.” He lets his head tip back, looking up at a sky frosted with stars. “But I’ve learned that good fires take patience. You don’t force them—you tend them. You give them air.”
I shouldn’t like the metaphor as much as I do. “You’re not going to make a fire-fighting line for every situation, are you?”
“Absolutely I am,” he says, deadpan. “Wait until you hear my speech about controlled burns and emotional boundaries.”
It’s ridiculous. It dissolves whatever last knot is in my chest.
“Friends,” I say again, to the moon, to my own traitor heart.
“Friends,” he echoes. And because he’s that kind of man, he doesn’t step closer or reach for me or use the word to get what the word isn’t offering. He just stands there, warm and solid in the cold, and lets me be the one to move when I’m ready.
We do one more loop of the grounds together, checking the gate chains, turning the lock on the merch shed. He points out two extension cords someone routed wrong. I add it to my list. At the end of the loop, by the gravel lot, he stops.
“I should go,” he says. “Morning shift.”
“Text me when you’re home.”
“I will.” He starts to turn, then glances back. “Huck and TJ—sleepover rules?”
“No pranks. No glitter. No practicing to be firefighters inside buildings.”
“Good rules.”
We trade a smile that feels like an understanding. He heads for his truck. Halfway there, he turns again, walking backward now, easy and careless. “For what it’s worth, Lanie?”
