Chapter 35
Levi
The fire in the tree line was the real problem.
Structure fire was manageable in its way—contained by geometry, by walls and materials, and the finite dimensions of a building.
This was different. The dry grass and blackberry thicket behind the back lots had carried the fire straight into the pines with terrifying efficiency.
The flames moved through the canopy in long reaching shapes, light shifting and jumping, throwing shadows that moved like living things through the smoke.
The heat came in waves—you felt it on your face and hands even through the gear, rolling out from the tree line in pulses that told you what the fire was doing and where it was going next.
The smell was different here than in the Airstream—not the chemical burn of melting aluminum, but the deep, resinous scent of burning pine, thick and almost sweet underneath the smoke, the smell of something old and large being unmade.
The ground was uneven—roots and rocks under boots, footing shifting in ways you couldn’t always anticipate.
You learned to keep your weight centered and your attention split between what was in front of you and what was underfoot.
The smoke moved with the river wind, visibility shifting constantly—thirty seconds of relative clarity and then the smoke would thicken, and the world would reduce to the small lit circle of what the lights could reach.
You worked in that circle and trusted your crew to be working in theirs.
Jude was on my left. He was always on my left on a fire line, had been since we were both rookies, and figured out by the second call that we worked better when we didn’t have to think about where the other one was.
We didn’t talk. We moved through it with the rhythm of two people who shared a language without words—the slight shift in direction that communicated what a shout would have taken three seconds to say, the way one of us moved and the other adjusted without being asked.
The canopy crackled above us and threw embers in long arcs that landed in the darkness beyond the line—small orange pinpoints appearing in your eyeline. You watched for them, tracked them, moved to them before they became something you couldn’t move to anymore.
The wind was the problem. It came in gusts off the river, unpredictable, pushing the fire one direction and pulling it back. You worked with it rather than against it, giving it less to find in the direction you didn’t want it to go.
An hour in, the line was holding. An hour and twenty, the fire had found the edge of what it was going to get and was beginning—reluctantly and with significant complaint—to accept the fact.
Two hours and change—the line cut back to something containable, the tree line damaged and black but stopped, the brush cleared in a wide band that hadn’t been there at nine forty-seven.
My shoulders ached from the sustained physical work, and my back was talking to me in a language I chose to ignore. I was damp through the turnout gear with sweat gone cold. I pulled my helmet off at the edge of the tree line and looked at what the last two hours had produced.
The campground was standing.
I looked at it for a moment—at the damage and the windows of the trailers that hadn’t burned, at the one strand of Christmas lights that had survived at the far end of the row, still blinking.
We rolled back to the station in silence.
Jude drove. I stared out the window at the dark shapes of trees sliding past, the faint orange glow still visible in the distance.
The adrenaline had drained out, leaving the familiar hollow ache behind my ribs, the one that always came after the job was done and the mind finally had room to remember what it had been afraid of.
I showered at the station—hot water, soap that smelled like nothing, the mechanical rhythm of getting clean after a call. Changed into jeans and a fresh hoodie. Jude was already in civvies when I came out, leaning against his locker.
“You heading to Matt’s?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He pushed off the locker. “I’m going home. Call if you need anything.”
I nodded.
He left.
I drove to Matt’s house in the quiet dark, windows down, letting the cool air move through the cab. The road was empty. The river ran steadily beside me. Every mile felt longer than it should have.
Becca was sitting on the top step when I pulled up—clean, showered, hair pulled back, wearing one of Matt’s old flannel shirts over a huge pair of sweats. She looked smaller than she had on Aggie’s porch; her eyes found me the second I stepped out of the truck.
She stood.
I crossed the yard in four strides.
I didn’t speak. Just pulled her into me—hard, careful, arms around her back, face in her hair.
She wrapped both arms around my neck and held on like she was afraid I’d vanish if she let go.
“I’m okay,” she whispered against my throat. “We’re okay.”
I exhaled and pressed my lips to the top of her head and held them there, breathing her in—smoke and something underneath it that was just her, still her, unmistakably her—and felt the iron thing in my chest begin, slowly, to loosen its grip.
She pulled back just enough to look at me, hands sliding from my back to my chest, her eyes moving across my face the way they did when she was checking something, taking inventory.
“You’re shaking,” she said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Her hands came up to frame my face, warm and certain, thumbs brushing slow across my cheekbones, tracing the soot I hadn’t quite washed off in my rush to get to her.
I felt the drag of it against my skin, the gentleness of the gesture, and something in me that had been clenched for hours threatened to come apart entirely.
I closed my eyes.
“I thought I was going to be too late,” I said.
The words came out rough, scraped raw. “I thought I’d get there and you’d be—” I stopped.
Swallowed against whatever was climbing my throat.
“I thought I’d lose you. I thought I was going to pull up and you’d be—” I couldn’t finish it.
Couldn’t put it into words, not even now, not with her warm and solid and here in my hands.
Her breath hitched. I felt it against my lips, felt her fingers tighten slightly against my jaw. “You didn’t,” she whispered.
“I know.” My voice cracked anyway, split clean down the middle, and I didn’t try to stop it.
“But the whole drive. The whole call, every second of it—I had this image I couldn’t get rid of, and I kept thinking about everything I hadn’t said yet.
Everything I still wanted—” I stopped myself.
Pressed my lips together. Looked at her as tears filled my eyes.
She was right there, close enough that I could see the remnants of the evening in her face—the faint smudge at her temple, the redness at the edges of her eyes, the small covered marks at her collarbone that I was going to think about later when I had the capacity to be properly terrified. Right now, she was just Becca.
“There’s so much I still want to say to you,” I said quietly. “I just—I need you to know that.”
She made a soft sound, somewhere between a breath and something wordless, and leaned her forehead against my chest. Her hands slid back into my hair, fingers curling gently against my scalp, and I felt the tremor move through me again and stopped trying to hold it still.
“Then say it,” she murmured. “All of it. Whenever you’re ready.” Her thumb moved against my cheek, slow and deliberate. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I pulled her back in, arms wrapping around her, her face tucking against my neck, and held her the way I’d been needing to since the moment the call came through—close and careful and with everything I had.
“I know.” My voice cracked anyway. “But I thought I would. The whole drive. The whole call. Every second.”
“I thought I wasn’t getting out,” she whispered. “I thought I was going to leave you. The trailer caught fire so fast. I thought you’d have to go into Aggie’s and find…”
I tightened my hold, fingers pressing into her back like I could keep her anchored to me forever. “You didn’t leave me. You’re here. You’re breathing. You’re in my arms. And I’m never letting anything take you from me.”
She buried her face against my throat, breath hot and uneven against my skin. “I was so scared. Not just for Gerald. For you too. That you’d get there and I’d be gone. That I’d never get to tell you—”
I cut her off gently, my lips brushing her forehead. “Tell me now. Tell me you love me, and I’ll say it back. Tell me, Becca, because I’m in love with you. More than I can ever put into words.”
She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes—red-rimmed, shining, terrified, and fierce all at once. “I love you,” she said, voice breaking open. “I’ve loved you for so long, I don’t remember what it felt like before. And I was scared I’d never get to say it to you.”
My throat closed. I rested my forehead against hers, breathing her in, the words I’d held back for years finally rising to the surface.
“I love you too,” I whispered, raw and certain.
“I’ve loved you since we were kids. I’ve loved you through every quiet year, every time you pulled away, and every time I let you.
I’ve loved you when I didn’t know how to say it, and I love you now more than ever.
And I’m not losing you. Not tonight. Not ever. ”
She made a small, shattered sound and kissed me—desperate, trembling, tasting of smoke, tears, and everything we could have lost. I kissed her back with everything I had—slow, deep, pouring every unspoken promise into it.
I’m here. I’m staying. You’re mine, and I’m yours, and nothing is taking that away.
When we broke apart, both breathing hard.
“Don’t scare me like that again,” I murmured, voice rough.
She kissed me again, pouring everything into it. All the fear, relief, the raw edge of almost lost. I kissed her back the same way—careful, desperate, hands sliding into her damp hair, holding her like she was the only thing keeping the ground under me.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m right here. I’m okay.”
“I know.” I swallowed hard. “I just—don’t ever do that again. I’m the firefighter. I run into burning buildings, not you.”
She gave a small, watery laugh. “I won’t. I promise.”
Behind us, the porch light glowed soft and steady.
Aggie and Gerald were at Rosemary’s.
Matt was still out, coordinating with the sheriff.
The Airstream was gone.
But Becca was here—warm, breathing, and safe in my arms. And for the first time since the tones dropped, I let myself believe it was over.