I huff out a quiet laugh. “Fair enough.”
His eyes move over me, appreciative, reverent. “You good?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“How was it?” he asks, nodding toward the building.
I glance back once. Then forward again. “They offered me the job,” I say.
His brows lift slightly. “That right?”
“Part-time. Maybe more.”
“And?”
I look at him—at the man who didn’t ask me to stay, who didn’t try to fix anything, who stood with me and let me decide—and I can’t help but beam. “I took it.”
Something shifts in his expression—quiet, steady, and proud.
“Sounds like you made the right call.”
“I did,” I say with a smile. “I’m done waiting for someone else to tell me where I belong.”
His gaze holds mine. “Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”
“You still sure about this?” I ask.
“About what?”
“This,” I say, gesturing lightly between us. “Me. All of it.”
He pushes off the truck and closes the distance. His hand finds mine, steady and certain. “More sure than I’ve ever been about anything. Sure enough to make it permanent.” He waggles his finger. “I’d tattoo it on my soul, too, if I could.”
“Not so quiet now,” I whisper, a sting behind my eyes.
He palms my cheek, indigo eyes meeting mine. “Not with you. Never with you.”
He kisses me like he means it. Like he did at the Vegas chapel. And then after coming home from the fire.
Our tradition now. One of many.
I lace my fingers through his. Just as sure.
“Ready?” he asks.
“For what?”
“Whatever’s next.”
I think about that. About everything that happened. Everything that could have gone differently.
The house, the gun, the moment I stopped running. None of it feels distant anymore. It feels like something I walked through. Something I survived and even chose.
For this. Forhim.
“Yeah,” I say. I squeeze his hand once.
“Let’s go.”
And this time, I don’t look back.
The danger’s over.The choice is made.
But Donovan “Phoenix” Lane isn’t done with his wife yet.
Not even close.
One truck bed. One star-filled night. One cowboy fireman ready to claim what’s his.
