From his corner, Peanut suddenly squawks: “Pretty! Pretty! More!”
We both laugh, the moment shifting from intense to something lighter but no less significant.
“Well, if Peanut approves,” Laney says, her eyes dancing with amusement.
“He’s got excellent taste,” I say, then grin as an idea strikes. “Though I do have one more song to share…”
“Oh?”
“It’s a variation of something you might know.” I clear my throat dramatically, watching her expression, then sing, “Orc the halls with boughs of holly—”
“What?” Her eyes go wide, then she bursts into delighted laughter that fills the cabin with warmth. “Did you just—?”
“Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!” I continue, letting my voice get more exuberant with each note, reveling in the way her laughter builds.
“Oh my God, you’re serious!” She’s laughing so hard she’s breathless, one hand pressed to her chest. “That’s terrible and wonderful and—” She joins in, her voice blending with mine in our ridiculous performance. “Orc the halls with boughs of holly, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!”
Even Peanut seems charmed by our performance, adding “la-la-la” to the chorus instead of his usual complaints.
“Only you would turn a Christmas carol into an orc anthem,” she gasps when we finally collapse into giggles.
“Cultural adaptation,” I say solemnly, then can’t maintain the serious expression. “Though I think we need to work on the rest of the verses.”
“Oh, we’re definitely workshopping this,” she declares, still grinning. “This could be your contribution to Christmas carol history.”
“Famous last words.”
The laughter fades to comfortable quiet, but something has shifted. The air feels charged now, expectant. Laney’s smile softens as she gazes at me, and I find myself studying her profile in the firelight—the way the glow catches in her hair, the small scar on her chin, and the unconscious grace in her movements.
Beautiful doesn’t begin to cover it.
“Tell me about your family,” she says, her voice quieter now, more intimate. “About your mother, who taught you that music bridges gaps.”
I let myself lean into the memories, sharing this piece of myself. “She’s amazing. Strong, patient, endlessly optimistic despite everything we’ve been through.” The words come easier than expected, maybe because Laney listens with her full attention.“I was lucky—my whole family came through the Rift together. That’s incredibly rare. Most people lost everyone.”
Her hand finds mine between us on the couch, a gentle pressure that saysI understand. “That must make it hard when you have to be away fighting fires. Being separated from everyone you care about.”
“It does.” I turn my hand over, threading our fingers together. The contact sends warmth radiating up my arm. “But some things are worth the distance.”
She doesn’t ask what I mean at first. The silence stretches, comfortable but weighted with unspoken questions. Finally, she speaks, her voice careful. “What does that distance look like? When the roads clear, I mean?”
I appreciate that she’s asking. That she’s not avoiding the hard questions. “Honestly? I don’t know yet. I have to go back to the Zone—that’s not negotiable. Others can’t just live outside without authorization, and even then, it would be time-limited.”
“Oh.” Her voice is small. “I hadn’t… I didn’t think about that.”
“There are programs,” I continue, wanting to give her hope even as I’m realistic. “The Essential Services Program allows some firefighters to work outside the Zone. But it requires applications, approvals, and all kinds of red tape. And even then, I couldn’t fully relocate. I’d still have to maintain a residence in the Zone, commute back regularly.”
I continue, needing to be fully honest. “And there’s something else. My chief mentioned a promotion before I left. Lieutenant position. Better pay, more responsibility.”
“That’s amazing!” Her face lights up despite everything. “You must be excited.”
“I don’t know yet exactly what it will mean. More time in the Zone, more on-call hours. Less flexibility for…” I gesture vaguely, not wanting to sayfor relationships outside the Zonewhen we’re still figuring out what this is. “For personal life.”
“Oh.” Understanding dawns in her eyes. “So the promotion would make things harder for us.”
“Potentially. Or it could mean better financial stability to actually build something real instead of just surviving paycheck to paycheck.” I squeeze her hand. “The board wants an answer by mid-January. I haven’t decided yet. Part of me wonders what I’d even be building it for, if…”
I trail off, but she understands what I’m not saying.
