Then the door bangs open.
“Delivery!”
We both jump. The spell shatters.
Boone curses under his breath and shoulders past the delivery men standing at the door like a general. He instructs them to drop it and waves them off, then hauls the sofa inside with ridiculous ease. He sets it under the picture window, unwraps it, steps back. “There.”
We sit.
Instant regret floods through me.
It’s stiff. Narrow. Punishing.
I burst out laughing. He does too, deep and surprised, like it escaped him.
“Congratulations,” he says. “You bought medieval torture furniture.”
“Sit on it longer,” I say, wiping my eyes. “Maybe it breaks in.”
He leans closer. “Firefly.”
“Yes?”
“You’re impossible.”
I grin. “You’re still here.”
He looks at me like I’m the answer to something he didn’t know how to ask.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I am.”
Chapter Seven
Boone
By late afternoon, the studio goes quiet in a way that feels earned.
Tools are lined up instead of scattered. The wiring panel hums clean and obedient. Sunlight slants through the big back windows, catching dust motes and paint flecks like they’re suspended on purpose. Ember sits on the edge of the worktable, swinging one bare foot, watching me coil extension cords.
She’s been watching me all day.
Not obvious. Not greedy. Just… present. Like she’s cataloging something she doesn’t quite understand yet.
“You always work this fast?” she asks.
“When I know what I’m doing.”
“That was a dig.”
“Observation,” I correct, without looking at her.
She laughs, bright and unguarded. “You’re impossible.”
I grin. “You like it.”
The quiet stretches. Comfortable. That’s new.
“You didn’t have to do all that.”
