“I just?—”
“Firefly,” he says, softer but no less commanding. “Please.”
I freeze. He doesn’t look at me again. He doesn’t have to. I step back because his tone leaves no room for argument—and because something in his posture tells me this is the moment everything he’s been holding back comes roaring to the surface.
The garage door is scorched black around the edges. Smoke seeps from the seams like it’s breathing.
Boone crouches, fingers brushing the metal without hesitation. He swears under his breath, then points the fire extinguisher in one hand and cracks the door open just enough to blast the interior.
White powder explodes inside.
The fire dies fast. Too fast.
“That’s not right,” he mutters.
He pushes the door wider, scanning, eyes sharp, movements economical despite the hitch in his step. He doesn’t rush. He assesses. I’ve seen him work on engines, methodical and precise, but this is different. This is instinct. Muscle memory. A language he never forgot.
I edge closer despite myself.
“Ember,” he warns without turning.
“I’m staying back,” I promise, heart in my throat. “I just—tell me it didn’t spread.”
“It didn’t,” he says. “Because this wasn’t meant to.”
That lands cold.
He straightens slowly and turns to me, and for the first time I see something fierce and alive in his eyes. Not fear. Not anger. Purpose.
“This was set,” he says. “Badly.”
My stomach drops. “Set? Why would?—”
“I don’t know yet,” he cuts in. Then his gaze flicks past me, sweeping the studio, the windows, the back door. Protective. Possessive. “But it wasn’t random.”
A fire truck pulls up at the road. Then another. The yard fills with movement and noise and familiar faces—Saxon barking orders, Ash scanning the perimeter, Axel hopping out with a medical bag he probably won’t need but brings anyway.
Savannah catches my eye and hurries over, hand warm on my arm. “You okay?”
I nod, even though my hands are shaking. “Boone?—”
“I’ve got him,” she says, squeezing. “He’s in his element right now.”
She’s right.
Boone barely registers anyone else as he walks Saxon through what he sees, pointing out burn patterns, residue, the way the scorch marks climb but don’t consume.
“Accelerant,” he says flatly. “Small amount. Placed low. Whoever did this wanted smoke, not destruction.”
Saxon’s jaw tightens. “Message?”
Boone nods once. “Maybe.”
I hug myself, suddenly cold despite the morning sun. This space—my space—feels violated. The place where I bring kids to make messy, beautiful things nearly went up in flames because someone decided it should.
Boone turns then, finally really looks at me, and the shift is immediate. The intensity softens, funnels into something sharp and personal.
“You hurt?” he asks.
