And I’m an arson investigator.
I know exactly what happens when you keep leaning into a flame.
Chapter Six
Ember
By noon, Boone and I have developed a rhythm that feels illegal.
Not because it’s smooth—because it’s sharp. Every movement between us scrapes. Every look lands hot. We work shoulder to shoulder in my half-gutted studio, him fixing what the inspector flagged, me painting trim samples on scraps of wood like I’m auditioning colors for a role that matters too much.
“Firefly,” he says without looking up, voice dry. “You’re about to electrocute yourself.”
“I’m standing on a ladder, not licking wires,” I shoot back, brush between my teeth as I reach for another swatch.
“You left the breaker live.”
“I like danger.”
He snorts. “You like chaos.”
“Same thing.”
I glance down. He’s crouched beneath the panel, broad shoulders filling the narrow space, dark T-shirt clinging in a waythat feels personal. Grease smudges his forearm. The scar along his shoulder peeks out when he moves, pale against tanned skin, and my attention snags on it like thread pulled too tight.
He senses my eyes on him.
“What?” he asks, not looking at me.
“Nothing.”
“Firefly.”
“I was just thinking,” I say lightly, “that you complain a lot for someone who volunteered to be here.”
“I didn’t volunteer.”
“You showed up before eight.”
“Captain ordered me.”
“You brought coffee.”
“For me.”
“Two cups.”
He finally looks up, one brow lifting. “You counting now?”
“Observing.”
He pushes to his feet. He smells like soap and metal and something darker underneath. Smoke, maybe. Or memory.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “Observation leads to conclusions.”
“And conclusions lead to?”
“Trouble.”
