“No,” I say. “Just scared.”
He closes the distance without thinking, one hand landing on my shoulder, thumb pressing in like he’s grounding both of us.The contact sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear.
“I won’t let anything happen to this place,” he says quietly. “Or you.”
The words are simple. The promise is not.
Saxon clears his throat. “We’ll run it official, Boone.”
“I know,” Boone says. “I want to walk it again when you’re done.”
Saxon studies him for a second, then nods. “Take the lead.”
And just like that, something settles into place. The men move around him with trust that’s been earned the hard way. Boone doesn’t hesitate. He directs, observes, questions. He’s alive in a way I haven’t seen yet, like the fire didn’t take this part of him—it only buried it.
I watch from the edge, heart pounding, pride swelling unexpectedly.
An hour later, the trucks are gone. The garage is taped off. The air smells clean again.
Boone walks back to me slowly, exhaustion edging his movements but something steady anchoring him now.
“You okay?” he asks again.
“I think so,” I say. “You?”
He exhales. “Yeah.”
The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid.
“You were incredible,” I blurt.
He snorts. “You make it sound like a trick.”
“I mean it,” I say. “You stepped right back into it. Like you never left.”
His gaze drops, then lifts to mine. “I did leave.”
“But you came back,” I say softly.
His mouth curves, just barely. “For you.”
My breath catches.
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell smoke on his clothes, feel the heat he hasn’t burned off yet.
“Firefly,” he murmurs. “This scared you.”
“Yes.”
“I hate that.”
“I know.”
He lifts a hand, hesitates, then cups my jaw, thumb warm against my skin. It’s not a kiss. It’s not even a move toward one. It’s a moment—charged, reverent, dangerous.
“I’m here,” he says. “And I’m not disappearing.”
I swallow, nodding. “Good.”
