Chapter 14 Frankie
Chapter fourteen
Frankie
It's cold. Not icy or alarming, more that soft, hollow chill that settles when warmth has slipped away.
Then I notice the silence.
I shift under the blanket, blinking blearily at the cabin ceiling.
My thighs ache. My hips ache. Everything aches, in that well-fucked kind of way that should come with a grin and a goddamn commemorative plaque.
But I don’t smile, I frown.
Because Mason is clearly not here.
I sit up slowly, wincing as my body protests. The space where he was lying is cold, and I can hear the wood burner’s still going strong, but the cabin feels emptier.
The only sounds are the faint crackle of fire and the wind outside pressing against the walls.
Gingerly, I swing my legs off the bed and stand, clutching the woollen blanket around me and padding into the living area.
I glance toward the armchair, half-expecting to see him sitting there smug in those fire department sweatpants and no shirt, waiting for me to come sit on him again. But no.
There’s no Mason.
I slowly make my way around the cabin, checking different surfaces to see if maybe he left a note because, I realize like a fool, we never exchanged numbers.
All we have is the damn app.
I snatch my phone up and open it, but there’s no message waiting for me.
My stomach twists. I pull the blanket tighter around my chest, ignoring the clutter of the morning—the half-empty water glass, my tangle of clothes on the floor, the dishevelled box of Christmas decorations and tinsel piled on the floor.
Instead, I type out a message to Fireboy.
Me: Hey. You okay?
The message sends, but the little “delivered” checkmark doesn’t appear. I wait. Refresh it a few times. Check my signal.
Nothing.
I toss the phone on the couch beside me and exhale ly through my nose.
He’s probably busy. He said he had to head back to the station, maybe to cover a shift or something, I can’t remember.
Hell, maybe he left while I was still out cold because he didn’t want to deal with the reality of whatever the fuck this is between us.
And maybe he didn’t leave a note because he thought I’d just know.
Or maybe I’m an idiot. Maybe I let myself believe this was more than it was. Maybe I wanted to let his voice, his touch, his eyes convince me that it meant something.
I’ve seen this play out before. I’ve heard about firefighters pulling this exact move—showing up like a fantasy, leaving like a ghost.
A week of attention, a few filthy nights, some whispered promises, then poof. Back to their schedules, their shifts, their endless line of hookups who fall for the uniform and the intensity.
And the worst part is I know better.
I've heard enough about firefighters through the years to know the stereotype doesn’t come from nowhere. I’ve heard the jokes, the stories.
And yet, Mason didn’t feel like a story.
I rub my temples, trying to untangle the memory of his voice. How careful he was when he said he wasn’t good at this, but wanted to be. How reverent he looked when I came apart for him.
Sometime during the night, right after I’d made him crawl, I woke up aching.
Not for more sex, just for him. For the feel of him against me and the steady weight of his hand on my hip. And I lay there wondering if he felt it too. Now I wonder if he’d already let me go.
My phone buzzes, and I grab it too quickly.
I let the video call connect, and Ana’s face appears, framed by the pink hue of her bedroom walls.
She takes one look at my expression and groans.
“What happened?”
I sink onto the couch and pull the blanket tighter. “He’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Back to work, I guess. He didn’t say… I got laid then woke up alone.”
Ana winces. “No note?”
I shake my head.
“No message?”
“Radio silence.”
Ana’s face softens. “Frankie.”
“I know,” I say quickly, hating how my voice sounds. “I know what this looks like, okay? I’m not delusional.”
“You’re also not psychic.” She props her chin on her hand. “You don’t know anything yet. And you definitely don’t have to figure it all out before you’ve had coffee.”
“I sent a message and it didn’t even deliver,” I mumble. “Like, maybe he deleted the app.”
She frowns. “Okay. That’s not great, but also… technology is dumb? I once got dumped because my text got stuck in airplane mode and the guy assumed I ghosted him. You remember Ben?”
“You're the one who ghosted him,” I mutter.
“Yeah, but not until after that. He wore dad-sneakers with jeans. I had no choice.”
Despite myself, I snort.
Ana grins. “My point is, don’t spiral yet. Not until we’ve at least ruled out app glitches, amnesia, or a rogue raccoon stealing his phone.”
I roll my eyes. “You really think I’m not being insane about this?”
“I think you're being... emotionally compromised,” she says carefully. “But not stupid. You just got laid by the hottest-sounding man in Canada. But it wasn’t just sex, was it?”
I go quiet, willing the pang to settle. It wasn’t just the sex, it was the way I let him see me.
My pain, my past, all the jagged things I usually keep locked up tight. I thought I’d found someone whose scars fit against mine, and the way he spoke made me think he felt the same.
Ana watches me closely. “So yeah. Maybe this meant something to him, too. But I’ve gotta say it—because I love you—some of these firefighter guys? They’re pros at making you feel like you’re the only girl in the room, and then poof. They vanish.”
The fireplace pops, drawing my attention. “I didn’t feel like he was like that.”
She tilts her head. “I mean, sure. And maybe he’s not. But Frankie…” She hesitates, then gently continues. “You also once believed that bartender was taking a vow of celibacy for you.”
“He told me he was finding himself!”
“He was finding himself inside three other women. Simultaneously.”
I groan and let my head fall back.
“I’m not saying this guy’s the same.” Ana’s voice softens. “But I’ve heard enough things about firefighters to know that some of them are—”
“Insatiable?” I offer. “Addicted to adrenaline, emotionally avoidant, and constantly horny?”
Ana snorts. “I was going to say charming.”
“He is charming,” I say, and instantly regret the rawness in my voice.
“And hey,” she adds lightly, “if he does turn out to be a sexed-up firefighter cliché, at least you got the full experience. Did he make you come at least three times?”
My face burns.
“Oh my god, he did.” She leans back with a smug grin. “You dirty little elf.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up. And get dressed, you heathen.”
“Guess I should. Tam and everyone is going to a thing down at the lake. He might be there.”
“You’re going, right?
I glance toward the window. The sky’s pale and heavy, like the snow could start again at any second.
“I dunno. I feel stupid.”
“Well,” she says cheerfully. “You have just had someone fucking your brains out, so technically—”
“I swear to God, Ana…”
“But! You’re also smart enough to know that spiraling alone in a cabin won’t fix anything. Get dressed, and go have fun. And look hot in case you run into him. It’s a win-win.”
I shake my head with a smile. “You’re not as wise as you think you are.”
“I’m wise enough to tell you not to skate if you wanna make a good impression.”
She blows me a kiss when I throw her a middle finger, and ends the call. I stare at the screen for a long moment, then toss the phone onto the coffee table.
I don’t know where he is, but I know where I’m going.
Because if I don’t show up for myself today, who the hell will?
***
The Boxing Day event at Maplewood Lake is exactly as I remember.
There’s a bonfire crackling near the dock, music playing over tinny speakers, and a dozen booths set up along the snow-packed trail. Some sell hot cider, others collect donations.
Kids dart around with cocoa mustaches and leftover candy canes, cheeks pink and scarves trailing.
I grew up coming to this. Knew every face, every shortcut through the trails.
But today, even with Tamara looping her arm through mine and chattering like nothing’s changed, I feel like a tourist in my own hometown.
Close enough to touch it, but not quite part of it.
“God, I forgot how many people show up for this thing,” I mutter, tucking my hands deeper into my coat pockets.
“That’s Maplewood for you,” Tamara says with a grin. “Snow, snacks, and a chance to show off your skating skills… If you had any.”
“Rude.”
Logan glides past us on the ice, a hockey stick in hand, pulling a laughing Lulu behind him, who’s clinging to it like a sled.
Eli follows, less graceful but just as competitive, yelling something about a game-plan for later.
“They’re exhausting,” I say.
“They’re children,” Tamara agrees fondly. “But we keep them.”
I distractedly smile, then check my phone again.
Still no message.
I don’t know what I was expecting, maybe something stupid like a selfie. A voice note or a simple reply. Something about Hazel. Anything to suggest last night wasn’t just a blip in the snow.
“Still no word from Douchebag McGee, your voice app ghoster?” Tamara asks, watching me out of the corner of her eye.
For a moment I forget my sister doesn’t know that Mason’s Fireboy, that we’ve talked it out already and I did, in fact, make him crawl.
I nearly word vomit out every single detail on the spot, but what’s the point? So I play along.
“Nope.” I pocket my phone. “Not that I’m, like, waiting.”
“Of course not.”
I elbow her. “Shut up.”
We round the curve near the food run donation station, and my breath catches.
“Oh!” Tamara points a gloved finger. “There’s—”
Mason.
In uniform. Jacket open over a thermal shirt, gloves tucked in his belt, radio clipped to one shoulder.
He’s laughing at something one of the other firefighters says—one I don’t recognize. They’re standing near the tent, handing out flyers and greeting people as they pass.
He looks relaxed. Comfortable. Like someone who belongs.