Page 10 of Burning for the Mountain Man

This morning, I woke up in the apartment with his arm heavy across my waist, his breath warm on the back of my neck, and his radio on the nightstand next to my tablet. Our things. Mixed together. The reading glasses he keeps forgetting on my counter. The hair tie he picked up from the bathroom floor and put on the doorknob.

My chest aches with it. The wanting. The knowing this is temporary.

The email arrives at nine forty-seven.

My tablet pings. State forestry commission, official correspondence. Subject line: Q4 Rotation Planning.

From: Nevada State Forestry Commission, Rotation Coordinator To: A. Blake, Prevention Coordinator RE: Q4 Rotation Planning

Ms. Blake,

Please find below your updated rotation assignment effective November 3rd.

Next Assignment: Hawthorne District Report Date: November 5 Rotation Briefing: October 28, Carson City

Please confirm receipt and attendance at the rotation briefing by September 30.

Nash's thumb stops on my ankle.

"What?" He's watching my face over the reading glasses.

"Rotation notice." The words come out flat. Professional. The voice I've used in six districts when the email arrives and the duffel needs packing. "Hawthorne District. November third."

His hand leaves my ankle. Sets the fuel moisture reports on the floor. Takes off the reading glasses. Every movement deliberate, controlled. I've watched him do the same thing on a fire line. Compartmentalizing.

"November third."

"Standard Q4 rotation. Assignment closes here October thirty-first, I report to the briefing in Carson City on the twenty-eighth, then drive to Hawthorne."

"So you've got. What." His jaw works. "Six weeks."

"About that."

Silence. The apartment feels smaller. The thin walls, the two-burner stove, the duffel that's still open on the bedroom floor because I never unpack.

"Ten days," he says. "Good to know that's how you're counting."

"What?"

"We've been together ten days. You've been here three weeks. And the first thing you do when that email hits is calculate the timeline for leaving."

"That's not fair."

He stands. The fuel moisture reports scatter. "Isn't it? You walked in here with a duffel bag and told me you don't unpack for seasonal assignments. I heard you, Autumn. Didn't want to, but I heard you."

"Nash." Standing too, I face him across the tiny apartment. His shoulders fill the space between the kitchenette and the bedroom door. "This is my career. This rotation has been scheduled since before I got here. Before I knew you existed."

"And now?"

The question is a knife. Clean, precise. He's not yelling. Nash Deveraux doesn't yell. He goes quiet and focused, the same way he does when a fire is threatening structures and every decision matters.

"I can't make a decision about my entire career based on ten days. That's not fair to either of us."

"You keep saying fair." He takes a step back. Creating distance. "What you mean is easy. And I'm not easy, so you're already looking at the exit."

"That's not what I'm doing."

"It is exactly what you're doing." His voice is steady. Low. More devastating than shouting. "Six districts. Six duffels. You told me yourself. You almost stay every time, and then October comes, and you tell yourself this is what the job is."