Sophie roped the bookstore into participating this week, which means I'm manning our lemonade and coffee station while she handles the pastry table a few feet away. In between the refreshments, we’ve placed stacks of new and used books for sale.
The afternoon sun turns everything golden. Mountains rise dark against the blue sky. And Brooks' hand rests warm and possessive against my lower back.
He showed up ten minutes ago in jeans and a flannel that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad. He hasn't left my side since. His thumb traces slow circles against my spine through my shirt, a touch that's becoming familiar. Grounding.
"You okay?" His voice drops low, meant only for me despite the crowd milling around us.
"Perfect." I mean it. Not long ago, I was alone in a storm, terrified and shaking. Now I'm here with a man who makes me feel safe, wanted, and seen in ways I didn't know I needed.
Sophie hands me a tray of lemonade cups, and I weave through the crowd.
Brooks tracks my movement from across the courtyard, his gaze heavy enough to feel. When I glance back, he's still watching. Heat crawls up my neck.
Across the lawn, he leans against a table, talking to two men in base uniforms, Elijah and someone older with sergeant stripes. He’s relaxed. Confident. When he catches me staring, he winks, and my stomach flips. Heat blooms in my pussy.
Tonight I'll take him home and show him exactly what that wink does to me. My thighs clench at the thought. Three days, and I already know the weight of him, the taste of him, the way he says my name when he—
The flare punches through the laughter and music.
Orange blooms where the grill station stood, heat rolling across the lawn in a wave that steals my breath. The flames twist six feet high, angry and alive, fed by the open gas line. My lungs lock. Propane, bitter and chemical, coats my tongue.
People scream. Glass shatters against concrete.
My hands lock around the tray. Lemonade sloshes, soaking through my shirt, but I don't feel the cold. My vision tunnels. The flames fill everything, twisting, hungry, alive. My chest forgets how to expand. Air won't come. The heat radiates even from thirty feet away from the crowd, crawling across my skinlike something with teeth. My pulse hammers in my ears, drowning out everything else.
Then Brooks is there.
He moves through the chaos with controlled urgency, his voice cutting through the panic. "Everyone back. Move away from the structure. Now."
Then I see it.
Brooks stops. His whole body goes rigid, boots planted like roots. Three seconds. Long enough for my heart to slam twice. Long enough for terror to replace relief.
His face empties. Not blank, but hollowed, as if he's somewhere else entirely, watching something I can't see.
Then he blinks, and the mask slams back into place.
His hand closes around my elbow, firm and steadying. He guides me backward without breaking stride. The tray tilts in my grip. He takes it from me and sets it on a nearby table. His other hand finds my waist, and he positions me behind him. His body becomes a wall between me and the flames, his bulk dwarfing me completely.
"Stay here," he says, and his eyes lock on to mine for just a second. Dark. Intense. Certain. "Don't move."
I nod, my throat too tight to speak.
He's already turning, already moving toward the fire with the kind of focus that belongs to people who've done this a thousand times. Two men in base uniforms materialize beside him, and Brooks directs them with sharp, efficient gestures. One of the men holds a fire extinguisher. The other starts herding people farther back, his voice loud and commanding.
Brooks reaches the grill before the firefighter with the extinguisher. He stares at the flames for a heartbeat too long. And then his hands move to the valve with precision. The fire dies immediately; no fuel, no flame. Just smoke and the lingering smell of burnt propane and singed grass.
The crowd exhales collectively. Someone starts clapping, and the sound spreads until the whole courtyard is applauding. Brooks doesn't acknowledge it. He checks the area one more time, his shoulders rigid, then turns back toward me.
His eyes find mine across the distance, and relief floods his features. He closes the space between us in long strides. When he reaches me, his hands cup my face.
"You okay?" His voice is rough, strained, and his thumbs brush along my cheekbones.
"I'm fine. You put it out so fast."
"It wasn't that bad. It looked worse than it was." He scans my face, cataloging every detail, making sure I'm really unharmed. His hands tremble slightly before he forces them still. "But you're shaking."
I am. I didn't realize it until he said it, but my whole body trembles. The adrenaline is catching up now that the danger has passed, and my knees feel weak.
