“Ash,” I whisper, “you’re not going to lose her.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I insist. “Because she has you. And you show up. Every day. Even when it hurts. Even when you don’t know how. Even when you’re scared out of your mind.” His breath is uneven. I kneel in front of him, voice soft but certain. “You’re doing more than you think. More than she knows. More than anyone knows.”
He looks at me like the words hit deeper than they should. Then—quietly, desperately—he whispers: “Lucy… I don’t know how to do this.”
“You’re doing it,” I whisper back.
His eyes flick to my mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough for my heart to flip.
Then he stands abruptly, breaking the moment. “I need to check on Holly.”
He walks away before I can say anything else. I watch him go, my breath stuck somewhere between my chest and throat.
He’s hurting. He’s overwhelmed. He’s terrified. But he’s also… good. So damn good it hurts to look at him sometimes.
Holly comes barreling back out of the hallway in dinosaur pajamas. "Lucy, can you read me a story?"
I glance toward the hallway where Ash disappeared.
“Only if your uncle says it’s okay.”
“It’s okay,” his voice calls quietly.
Holly cheers. I settle onto the couch, Holly snuggling under my arm, the little stocking swinging above the fireplace.
Ash appears in the doorway. He leans against the frame. Arms crossed. Eyes on me. Expression unreadable. But not empty. Oh no. Not empty at all. Something real flickers there—something careful and dangerous and alive. Something that scares him. And something that might ruin me. I open the book. Holly leans into me. Ash doesn’t move.
And as I read, I feel his gaze.
Warm. Heavy. Unspoken.
And I know—down to my bones?—
This man is not temporary. Not for me. Not for Holly. Not anymore.
Because some things don’t fade. Some things don’t burn out. Some things spark… and keep sparking… until you’re standing in the doorway of something you can’t walk away from.
No matter how hard you try.
Chapter Seven
Ash
The worst part is that I knew something was going to go wrong the moment I pulled into the town square.
There’s a very particular kind of silence that follows disaster. A softness in the air. A pause before the world remembers it needs to start yelling again.
And the second I hear that silence, I know exactly who’s responsible.
Lucy Snow.
She stands near the community gazebo wearing a puffy white jacket, messy half-bun, red scarf wrapped twice around her throat, and the guiltiest expression I’ve ever seen on a human adult.
Which means she probably blew something up.
The fire truck is parked twenty feet away. The engine crew mills around with the same anticipatory look they had the day Boone tried to deep-fry a frozen turkey.
