“Shut it,” I say, but I’m not even pretending to be mad.
Savannah, traitor, curtsies. “Thank you for recognizing excellence in small-town romantic misunderstanding. I’d like to thank the cinnamon rolls, the banner committee, and the universe for conspiring until Axel figured out a heart is not a hazardous material.”
The room explodes. Dax wolf whistles. Even the probie chokes on a laugh. I slide a palm to Savannah’s lower back, quiet pressure that saysI’m right here.She straightens, and that little touch travels through both of us like a line sparking alive.
Levi points a camera phone. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
I level a stare that could stop a structure fire. The crew groans in theatrical disappointment. Savannah tips her head toward me, voice low. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Not even slightly.”
“You are,” she sing-songs. “Your mouth is trying not to smile.”
“It’s a muscle twitch.”
“A very handsome muscle twitch.”
“Brooks,” I warn, and she grins, radiant and sure, and for a second I have to look away or I’ll break my own rule about public displays and show them what claiming looks like.
We make the rounds. She hands out cookies she baked at an ungodly hour. I fix a wobbly bulb on the string lights. The crew teases until they run out of jokes. When the noise ebbs, I catch Savannah leaning against the ladder truck, watching me like a secret. I cross to her; she nudges my ribs with her shoulder.
“Congrats, Couple of the Year,” she says.
“Tragic honor.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Only because you’re here.”
Heat creeps under her skin. She tucks a curl behind her ear and fails at not smiling. “We should eat.”
“Later,” I say, too softly for the room. “I’ve got something planned.”
Her brows arch, curious and hungry at once. “Oh?”
“Trust me.”
She blows out a slow breath, playing at nonchalance while her fingers find my hand and lace there like they were always meant to. “I do.”
Two words that go straight to the core of everything in me.
***
Night cuts the mountain into a clean silhouette by the time I coax her out of the truck and to the firepit at the overlook. The night is quiet, the firepit a dark ring as the river and valley stretches below us, all of the world muffled by steady snowfall. I start the fire with kindling I split this morning. Flames lick pine, then rise, a warm roar. Savannah crouches to warm her hands. Orange washes her cheeks. Snow glints in her hair like the world decorated her for me.
My throat tightens. Ten years of letters. Ten years of never enough. I slide my hand inside my jacket, wrap my fingers around the box, and kneel before I can think about how my heart is trying to beat out of my body.
Savannah looks up. Sees me. Covers her mouth. Shakes her head like she’s laughing and crying at once. “Axel,” she whispers, voice wrecked. “Oh my God.”
The ring isn’t extravagant. It’s exactly right: a band of silver engraved inside with the firehouse number and a small etched flame at the center, a stone that catches firelight in a slow dance. It’s a promise forged out of what we are—duty and heat, hands and hope.
“Savannah Brooks,” I say, and her name tastes like home, “I’ve loved you since you pulled me into a snow fort and declared war on every boy who made fun of my mittens. I loved you at sixteen when the world ended and somehow you kept breathing. I loved you in every place I couldn’t reach you. And I love you now, here, where we’re finally brave enough to stay.”
She’s sobbing quietly, beautiful, fierce, shaking her head like there aren’t words big enough to hold this. I breathe once, steady my hands, and open the box.
“Will you?—”
“Yes,” she says, breaking, laughing through tears. “Yes, yes, I will, before you finish a single poetic sentence.”
