Chapter 22 Bonfire
TWENTY-TWO
BONFIRE
LYLA
The camp huddles beneath a star-scattered sky, their light dim, like even they’re too tired to shine tonight.
Everyone cleaned up after the shitshow at the school, taking turns washing in a nearby creek.
We look refreshed, even though my head is still pounding like crazy, but the silence that followed us through the day isn’t peaceful—it’s hollow, stretched thin by everything unsaid.
Leon moves like he’s done with it. Like he refuses to sit in the ruins of the day a second longer. He gathers scraps of wood, stacking them with care. The fire crackles to life, licking at the darkness, warming the chilled air. Shadows gleam across worn faces, chasing away the edges of grief.
Then he pulls something from his pack, and my breath stumbles—a bag of marshmallows, a box of graham crackers, and chocolate bars appear like magic.
The sight is so absurd, so achingly familiar, I almost cry. My brain rejects it outright, like my eyes are playing a cruel trick.
Poppy’s sharp inhale snaps the spell. “Are those real?” she whispers, like he conjured them from thin air.
Joanie clutches her chest, gasping with mock drama. “Leon. You beautiful, silent bastard.”
And for the first time tonight, he grins.
Clair presses a hand to her mouth, her shoulders shaking with a breathy laugh—part disbelief, part gratitude.
“Where the hell did you get those?” My voice comes out softer than I mean it to.
Leon taps the side of his nose. A silent wouldn’t you like to know.
Trish grins. “I don’t even care. Let’s eat.”
Earl, quiet since Pete’s exile, chuckles, low and warm. “Never thought I’d see the day roasted marshmallows would feel like a miracle.”
No one disagrees.
Leon spears a marshmallow on a stick and hands it to Poppy, who takes it with the reverence of someone holding an ancient relic. She scurries back to Clair, excitement buzzing off her in waves.
Clair kneels on a worn blanket, arranging the graham crackers and chocolate like the fate of the world depends on the perfect crunch-to-melt ratio. She glances at Leon, and for a moment, something sparks in her gaze. Gratitude, maybe. Or something else entirely.
Leon watches them, his expression unreadable, except for the way his eyes catch on Clair a beat too long.
I step beside him, arms crossed. “You know,” I murmur, low enough for only him, “you could talk to her.”
A sidelong glance. Blank stare.
I nudge him with my elbow. “Right, mystery-man act. Forgot you save the silent treatment just for me.” I mime a drumroll, then wink. Nothing.
“Okay,” I say, voice dipping, “but you could write it down. Let her know how you feel. I know there’s a heart in that fortress of yours. I see how you are with Trish and Jacob. Hell, even Joanie.”
His gaze stays on Clair and Poppy. The only sign he’s listening is the slight tightening of his jaw. His fingers flex at his side.
A laugh breaks through the night. Poppy yanks her marshmallow from the flames just before it disintegrates. Clair blows on it, gentle, patient, while Poppy giggles and reaches for another.
Joanie swaps her perfectly toasted marshmallow for Poppy’s charred one without hesitation. “I love the burnt ones,” she declares, then yelps, fanning her mouth, eyes watering.
Leon shifts, pulling a small notepad and pencil from his pocket. He scribbles, then hands it to me without looking away from Clair and Poppy.
They’re guarded. I don’t want to push.
The words settle heavy in my chest. When I look back at him, I catch it—softness. A crack in the armor. A quiet battle behind his eyes, buried beneath years of silence.
“Do you know why they’re guarded?”
A single nod. Another quick scribble. Someone hurt them.
His hands curl into fists, chest rising in angry breaths. Whatever truth he’s holding, it’s enough to shake even him.
I hope whoever hurt them is dead. And if not, if Leon finds them, they will be.
By the fire, Clair tucks a strand of hair behind Poppy’s ear, listening to her chatter between bites of gooey marshmallow. Her fingers smooth Poppy’s jacket, protective, fierce. Like she’s willing the world itself to stay soft for her kid.
I step closer to Leon and whisper, “Don’t wait too long.”
He holds my gaze, nods once, then heads for his truck. Too solemn.
So, I decide to fix that.
I cup my hands around my mouth. “I’m honored you came to me, Leon. That thing on your ass doesn’t sound normal, so make sure you have Trish take a look at it. No need to be embarrassed.”
His shoulders snap tight.
I bite back a grin as he stops, turns, and glares. His lips press into a razor-thin line, but I catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Trish howls. Joanie’s eyes widen, Barbara snorts into her cup, and Edith shakes her head with a grin. Earl’s hand drifts to his own backside, brows furrowing, as if he’s just now questioning whether he, too, might be suffering from this mysterious affliction.
Clair gapes at me, cheeks pink. I know exactly where her thoughts went.
You’re welcome, bud.
Poppy, mercifully oblivious to my antics, stays hyperfocused on her marshmallow. Brow furrowed in determination. As if achieving the perfect golden toast is the only mission in the world that matters.
Leon stands there for a beat, then slowly flips me off with both hands.
The camp erupts louder. I blow him a kiss.
He signs something fast, definitely not polite.
A low chuckle rumbles behind me. Jacob’s there, arms crossed, patched-up hands on display, watching me with that amused fascination that makes my pulse stumble. His gaze drops to my mouth, and the memory of our kiss slams into me—hard.
My breath catches.
The fire crackles, but the real heat is here, in the space between us. His eyes darken, sharp, knowing. He tilts his head like he’s weighing something.
And God help me, I hope it’s kissing me again. Or more.
“What did he say?” I ask, aiming for casual and missing.
“Leon said thank you,” he drawls, then, with a lazy grin, “and suggested you get that third nipple checked out. The green tinge isn’t a good sign.”
Earl sputters so hard he almost topples off his camping chair, hacking on his water. Edith, ever patient, pats his back with the kind of practiced ease that says this isn’t my first rodeo.
The camp roars with laughter. Trish groans like she’s developing a migraine in real time, one hand rubbing her temples.
I spin, flipping off Leon’s retreating figure. He salutes without turning, shoulders shaking.
Trish mutters, “I’m not checking anyone’s weird growths or third nipples,” which only fuels the chaos.
Then Poppy asks, “Mom, what does a third nipple look like?”
The camp loses it all over again, laughter rolling through the night like thunder. Clair shoots Leon a half-amused, half-exasperated glare, while Poppy watches us all, wide-eyed, clearly delighted but utterly lost as to why.
The night drifts on, soft and unhurried, the sharp edges of the day smoothing into something quieter.
Joanie and Poppy sprawl on their backs, full of s’mores and sleep heavy, their giggles dissolving into murmured nonsense. Poppy curls closer to Clair, fingers sticky with melted chocolate.
Joanie, stubborn as ever, fights sleep like it’s a battle she refuses to lose, mumbling about not being tired even as her eyelids betray her.
As the fire burns low, Jacob stands and says goodnight. Before he turns to leave, his eyes catch mine and hold for a beat longer, like he’s saying see you soon. He winks and heads toward his camper, his silhouette framed in fading firelight.
I wait. Just long enough to pretend I wasn’t.
Then I push to my feet, murmuring a quick, “Night,” to whoever’s still lingering, slipping past the fire as if my destination isn’t already decided.
But my pulse betrays me, hard, fast, each step echoing something inevitable. The memory of his kiss from earlier crackles through my head like a live wire—the way his hands gripped me, the way he took like consequences didn’t exist.
I almost died today. Again.
Near-death changes a person.
Yes, I’m afraid of losing more people. Yes, I’m terrified I’ll hurt the ones I care about, or worse. But right now? I want to be selfish. Wanted. Needed. I can punish myself later. Right now, I want him.
Don’t wait, I told Leon. Now it’s my turn.
Jacob’s camper is dark.
I stop at the door, pulse hammering. Did he go to bed? Did I misread him? No. Stop being stupid, Lyla. Don’t second-guess.
I raise my hand to knock—
The door swings open.
Jacob fills the frame, broad and consuming, eyes shadowed but glinting. That grin says he knew I’d come. Smug, sexy bastard.
His gaze drags over my face, dips to my lips, then back up. Slow. Unapologetic. Heat prickles over my skin.
Neither of us moves.
Exhaustion softens the edges of his face, but his eyes stay locked—focused, intense. Like I’m worth studying. Worth keeping.
No one’s ever looked at me like this. And somehow, it starts to mend something I didn’t know was broken.
I part my lips, but he beats me to it.
“I’m finally ready to take you up on your offer.”
I blink.
He studies my face like he’s waiting for me to catch up. “I’d like to have dinner with you. Next week.”
Wait. What? “You do realize the world ended, right?” I arch a brow. “Social rules and etiquette died with it. Flesh-eating monsters kind of killed the whole dating concept.”
His smile stretches, confident, knowing. He leans against the doorframe, arm braced above his head, looking like he has all the time in the world to tease me. “I guess I’m old-fashioned.”
“Then why a week? Why not now?”
“You got a concussion today.” His voice dips, rough. “Yeah, I heard from Trish. You should heal before taking on any other”—his eyes flick down, then back up, dark with intent—“strenuous activities.”
Heat curls low in my stomach, frustration biting at its edges. I huff, shaking my head. Patience is not my strong suit.
Fine. If he wants to tease, so will I.