Boone growls. “Enough you nosy fucks. You’re worse than every old, gossipin’ grandma in this town.”
Axel’s voice drops conspiratorially. “Town’s already buzzing, man. Something about paint, plumbing, and you looking like you hadn’t seen color before.”
Boone scoffs. “She flooded her own studio.”
“That bad?”
“She cried.”
There’s a pause.
Then Ash says, carefully, “And?”
“And nothing,” Boone snaps. “I fixed it. End of story.”
Saxon hums. “Funny. You don’t usually volunteer for anything involving people.”
I finally slide one earbud in. Then the other. The music starts—soft, instrumental—but it doesn’t drown them out. Not really.
Axel chuckles. “She call you an asshole yet?”
Silence.
Oh. That landed.
Boone mutters, “I’m not answering that.”
Ash laughs outright. “She’s gonna crack you.”
“Or burn you down,” Saxon adds.
Boone’s voice goes quiet. “Don’t bet on it.”
Something in my chest twists. Not pity. Not worry.
Recognition.
I shut my laptop, slide it into my bag, and tell myself I’m leaving because I’ve finished my work—not because I’ve heard enough.
I stand. Turn. And walk straight into a wall.
A warm, solid, very human wall.
Boone’s chest is right there. Broad. Unmoving. I gasp and grab his jacket before I tip backward.
“Easy, Firefly.”
His hands settle on my waist without hesitation, fingers firm, steady. The contact sends a jolt straight through me.
“I—sorry,” I say, flustered. “I didn’t see?—”
“Hard to miss me,” he murmurs, clearly amused.
I pull back, mortified. “I was just—leaving.”
“I noticed.” His eyes flick to my bag. Then my face. Then my mouth. “You hear all that?”
I lift my chin. “Hear what?”
