Her finger stilled.
“It got close,” I said. “Close enough that three seconds still feels like something I can measure.”
She looked at the scar, then toward the firepit, where the coals sat low because I’d made sure they had no other choice. “That’s why yesterday hit you so hard.”
“Partly.”
“And today.”
“And tomorrow.”
“Flint.”
I looked at her.
“I’m not careless with fire.”
“I know.”
Her breath caught, like she hadn’t expected the answer to come that fast.
I kept going before I could make it harder than it needed to be. “I didn’t know that when I came down the ridge yesterday. I saw smoke, dry grass, wind, and a glossy setup in the wrongspot. Then I saw your shoes and your apron and the whole production circus, and I decided too much before I knew enough.”
Sunny’s finger moved over the scar again, softer this time. “I was furious.”
“You should’ve been.”
“You hosed my hair.”
“Your hair wasn’t my target.”
“Still a crime.”
“Probably.”
She smiled, but her eyes stayed serious. “I know what it feels like when someone looks at the surface and decides they already know the recipe.”
“I saw the shoes first.” I turned my wrist under her touch. “Should’ve looked harder.”
She went quiet for a second, then tapped the scar lightly. “And I saw the hose first.”
“Fair.”
“I’m still mad about the hair.”
“You should be.”
“But I’m less mad about the man holding it.”
I caught her hand in mine. “I’m less mad about the woman in the shoes.”
“Good. Because tomorrow I’m wearing practical color. Not beige.”
“I’d never ask for beige.”
“Smart man.”
“I’m learning.”
