But what if it's genetic? What if there's something about the Torres men that makes us end up alone? My dad couldn't commit, couldn't love someone enough to stick around. And my mom—my incredible, selfless, hardworking mom—never tried again after he left. Never dated, never let anyone close. As if one heartbreak was enough to shut the whole thing down forever.
So what am I? Some combination of both of them? Built for loving people, but not built for being loved back? Too similar to my dad to stay, too much like my mom to try?
I'm just saying…it doesn’t feel promising.
I pick my phone back up because self-reflection after midnight is a dangerous game, and I'd rather watch a stranger make a twelve-layer cake on social media than sit with whatever that was.
That's when the ad appears.
Mountain Mates: Forever.
I almost scroll past.
Not based on your photo.
I tap on it. Slowing down as you pass a car wreck: you don't want to look, but your eyeballs have other plans.
The site doesn’t seem…desperate. And the anonymous tier matches you on personality alone. You talk first and only meet up if things are working.
Bonus, that they have a retreat they run just for the purpose of meeting.
No photos means no one swiping right on account of my jawline and expecting a human Ken doll with the emotional depth of a kiddie pool. No one assuming I'm a player, or stupid, or not serious, or any of the other labels that got slapped on me somewhere around puberty and have been stuck there ever since.
For once someone could get to know the actual me. The guy who calls his mom every chance he gets. The guy who watches rom-coms alone and reads romance novels on his phone during slow shifts and would deny it to his grave if any of the crew found out.
The guy who's terrified he's going to end up like his father (or like his mother) and doesn't know which one scares him more.
Every woman I've ever dated flashes through my mind, a highlight reel of shallowness…the ones who liked how I looked next to them, the ones who laughed at my jokes, but never bothered to find out what was underneath them, the ones who stuck around for the fun and left at the first whiff of maturity.
That hollow feeling after casual hookups used to be fine, and now just...isn’t. It’s like eating junk food when your body's craving something nourishing. It fills you up for a minute, and then you're emptier than before, and even a little sick.
How would it feel to have someone fall for my words instead of my pecs?
I press the sign-up button.
The page loads and I sit up in bed as if I'm about to take an exam. Username. I need a username. Something that's me but not, you know, obviously me.
I typeWild@Heart.
Because wildfire is what I fight and what I feel, and if that's too poetic for a firefighter from Bozeman, well—too bad.
The profile questions come next. I answer them, deleting and retyping like every word is going on my permanent record.
Favorite way to spend a Friday night?Cooking something fun while music plays too loud in the kitchen. Or a movie on the couch. Anything really, if you’re with the right person.
What are you looking for?I stare at the cursor blinking. I start typing something casual and safe, then delete it. Then I type something funny, and add:Someone who wants to knowthe real me. Not the version people assume I am. Someone who laughs easily, but isn't afraid of the heavy stuff.
There are a few more and then…done. I hit submit.
I’m a damnfirefighter and a dating profile has me sweating.
If Aiden ever finds out about this, I will have to run away. If the whole crew finds out? I'm faking my own death and moving to Argentina. Whatever it takes.
I plug in my phone, pull the blanket up and close my eyes.
Something feels different. Like I just opened a door I didn't know was there, and I can't see what's on the other side yet…but there’s definitely light coming through.
CHAPTER 3
