She sets the crate down and slides her hands around my waist from behind, pressing her cheek between my shoulder blades. “Morning, Grump.”
The kid clears his throat loudly. “Uh. Hi.”
Ember peeks around me, eyes crinkling. “You must be Tyler. I’m Ember.”
“Hi,” he says, suddenly shy.
“She’s the boss,” I add.
She pinches my side. “Don’t lie to children.”
“Only a little,” I say. “For their education.”
She laughs and kisses my shoulder anyway, soft and quick, then turns to the kid. “You ready for your lesson?”
He nods like his head might fall off.
We work for an hour—me showing Tyler how to measure twice and cut once, Ember teaching a pair of girls in the studio next door how to mix watercolors without turning everything into mud. Her studio door hangs open and I hear her voice rise and fall sometimes when the wind blows just right, encouraging, teasing. The kids laugh. It’s a sound that fills spaces I didn’t know were empty.
At noon, we break. The kids scatter toward the picnic tables out back, where Savannah left a cooler like she always does on mentoring days. Ember wipes her hands on a rag and leans against the workbench, eyes on me.
“You’re good at this,” she says.
I shrug. “They listen.”
“They listen because you care.”
I snort. “Don’t get poetic.”
She steps closer, close enough that the scent of citrus soap and paint clings to me. Her fingers trace the scar on my forearm, slow. “You’re allowed to be more than one thing, Boone Lawson.”
Her voice goes low on my name. I feel it everywhere.
“Careful,” I murmur. “Kids around.”
She grins, unapologetic. “I’m always careful.”
We close up midafternoon. The kids leave with grease on their hands and pride in their pockets. Ember locks the studio and crosses the narrow strip of gravel to me, sunburned nose and all.
“Walk with me,” she says.
“Always.”
We take the long way up the ridge behind the buildings, the one that overlooks Devil’s Peak and the river threading silver through the trees. The air smells like pine and wet earth. Ember slips her fingers through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You’ve been different,” she says lightly.
“Different good or different bad?”
“Different open,” she says. “You’re not hiding anymore.”
I glance at her. “You did that.”
She shakes her head. “You chose it.”
We stop at the overlook. The world spreads out below us, bright and ordinary and enough. Ember leans on the railing, eyes distant.
“I love this place,” she says. “I love what we’ve made.”
