Her laugh is breathless. “Noted.”
I brush my thumb along her jaw, tilt her face up. “I’m not running,” I tell her. “But I’m not rushing either. I want this right.”
She nods, eyes bright. “Me too.”
We sit there, tangled and steady, until the night wraps around the studio and the fear finally loosens its grip.
Fire didn’t destroy me.
It revealed her.
And I’m done hiding from the truth.
Chapter Fourteen
Ember
The firehouse smells like home cooked casseroles and warm coffee and pastries.
I pace the edge of the bay while the kids line up in front of the curtain we rigged from old turnout tarps, their sneakers squeaking, their fingers smudged with paint they absolutely did not wipe on their pants like I asked. The crowd hums—Devil’s Peak turning out in flannel and dress uniforms, laughter bouncing off steel and concrete, the fundraiser banner strung crooked but proud.
Boone stands a few feet away, arms folded, weight favoring his good leg. He pretends to be stoic. Fails. His jaw works like he’s chewing something sharp. When he catches me watching, his mouth tilts.
“Firefly,” he says under his breath. “You pacing holes in the floor?”
“Maybe,” I say. “If I do, you’ll fix them, right?”
“Always fixing something,” he murmurs. “You included.”
I arch a brow. “I’m not broken.”
His eyes go dark and warm. “Never said you were.”
Captain Saxon claps his hands for attention. The noise cuts through the room, and the kids snap to it, eyes bright. Boone’s shoulders square. He looks like he’s bracing for impact.
“This is your moment,” I whisper.
He snorts. “I hate moments.”
“Liar,” I say. “You just don’t like being seen.”
He doesn’t answer. He watches the kids instead—watches the way they bounce, the way one of them grips the rope like it might run away. I slide my hand into his. He lets me. His thumb presses into my knuckle, grounding.
Saxon gives the nod.
The tarps drop.
Color explodes.
Gasps ripple across the bay. Someone whistles. Someone else laughs and swipes at their eyes like it’s dust. The mural stretches across the wall—firefighters in motion, faces fierce and tender, flames curling around them not as monsters but as raw material, reshaped into light. Yellows bleed into golds. Reds soften into dawn. A ladder arcs like a spine toward the sky.
The kids beam, chests puffed.
Boone goes still.
I watch the moment land on him. The way his breath catches. The way his fingers tighten around mine. He leans forward half an inch, as if pulled by a magnet he didn’t know existed.
“Boone,” I whisper. “Look closer.”
