Chapter 22 Heartfire
HEARTFIRE
NATE
Imade my way toward the Callahan lumber mill, work boots crunching on gravel that had been worn smooth by decades of trucks hauling timber.
I'd volunteered to help Evan with inventory—partly because he'd mentioned being swamped, but mostly because I was still figuring out how to navigate this new reality where my maybe-boyfriend could bench press a truck when the mood struck him.
The mill was bigger than it looked from the outside, all soaring ceilings and industrial equipment that hummed with barely contained power. Evan stood near a stack of two-by-fours that reached almost to the rafters, clipboard in hand and looking like he belonged among all the organized chaos.
“You sure about this?” he asked when he spotted me, gesturing at the mountains of lumber that needed counting and sorting. “It's not exactly glamorous work.”
“I can handle some manual labor,” I said, rolling up my sleeves with probably more confidence than the situation warranted. “Besides, how hard can it be?”
Evan's mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. “Famous last words.”
Twenty minutes later, I was discovering exactly how optimistic I'd been.
What had looked like straightforward inventory work turned out to require a complex system of measurements, grades, and organizational logic that made my brain hurt.
I'd managed to knock over two smaller stacks while trying to measure a third, and I was pretty sure I'd just recorded the same pile of planks three times.
“Having fun?” Evan asked, appearing beside me with that silent grace that I was still getting used to. The fact that he could move like a ghost when he wasn't thinking about it was both impressive and mildly terrifying.
“Living the dream,” I said, wiping sweat from my forehead and probably smearing sawdust across my face in the process. “Though I'm starting to think your dad's organizational system was designed by someone with supernatural abilities.”
“Among other things,” Evan said dryly. He reached past me to effortlessly lift a stack of boards that I'd been struggling with, muscles barely straining under the weight. “Here, let me show you the trick.”
The trick, it turned out, involved understanding that lumber had its own logic—sorting by length first, then width, then grade, all while keeping track of which pieces were designated for specific orders.
It should have been complicated, but watching Evan work was like watching someone speak a language they'd been born knowing.
“How do you keep track of all this?” I asked, watching him reorganize an entire section with the kind of efficiency that definitely wasn't entirely human.
“Practice,” he said, then caught my expression and added, “And yeah, okay, supernatural memory helps. We're built for tracking details—pack dynamics, territory boundaries, threat assessment. Turns out that translates pretty well to inventory management.”
“Show off,” I muttered, but there was no heat in it. Actually, it was kind of fascinating watching him work without having to hide what he was capable of. No more careful restraint or pretending to be entirely human. Just Evan being exactly what he was.
Which was when I made my next brilliant decision and tried to move a stack of boards that was definitely beyond my human limitations.
The lumber shifted wrong, physics decided to be unforgiving, and suddenly I was dealing with what felt like half a forest worth of wood trying to crush me into paste. I threw my hands up instinctively, knowing it wouldn't be nearly enough to stop the avalanche.
That's when Evan moved.
Not human-fast, not even athlete-fast, but supernatural-fast, crossing the space between us like he'd just teleported. His hands caught the falling lumber with the casual ease of someone catching a beach ball, supernatural strength making the rescue look effortless.
“Careful,” he said mildly, as if he hadn't just saved me from being turned into a very flat pancake. “These aren't exactly forgiving if they land wrong.”
I stood there gaping at him, heart hammering from the adrenaline rush of nearly being squished and the realization that I'd just gotten a front-row demonstration of exactly how not-human my boyfriend actually was.
“Holy shit,” I breathed, staring at the way he was casually holding what had to be several hundred pounds of lumber like it weighed nothing. “That was...”
“Necessary,” Evan finished, carefully restacking the boards with the kind of precision that spoke of supernatural coordination. He stepped closer, hands gentle as they checked me over for injuries. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just...” I gestured vaguely at him, at the lumber, at the general impossibility of what had just happened. “Still getting used to the fact that you're basically a superhero.”
“Hardly.” But there was color in his cheeks that suggested he wasn't entirely immune to the admiration in my voice. His hands lingered on my arms, thumbs brushing over my wrists like he needed the reassurance of my pulse. “Just built differently.”
“Built for rescuing clumsy boyfriends who bite off more than they can chew?”
The word slipped out before I could stop it, hanging in the air between us like a question I hadn't meant to ask. But Evan's expression went soft around the edges, something warm and pleased flickering behind his eyes.
“Among other things,” he said quietly, and then he was kissing me, soft and quick and tasting like morning coffee and relief.
We worked in comfortable silence after that, though “comfortable” was probably the wrong word for the way I kept finding excuses to brush against him, to let our hands touch when we both reached for the same tool.
Evan seemed equally afflicted, his supernatural awareness meaning he was always exactly where I needed him to be, steadying me when I stumbled, catching things before I could drop them.
“Here,” he said when I struggled with a measuring tape that had apparently been designed by someone with three hands. He moved behind me, arms coming around to help guide the tape, chest warm against my back. “Like this.”
I leaned into him without thinking, and felt him pause, breath catching slightly. “Thanks,” I murmured, turning my head just enough to catch his jaw with a quick kiss.
The measuring tape forgotten, he turned me in his arms and kissed me properly, deeper this time, until we were both breathing hard and I was seriously considering the merits of lumber mill floors as makeshift beds.
“We should...” Evan started, then trailed off when I nipped at his lower lip.
“Work. Right. Working is good.” But neither of us moved for another long moment, content to stand there wrapped around each other like teenagers who'd just discovered kissing.
The pattern continued through the morning.
I'd reach for something too high, and Evan would appear behind me, lifting me effortlessly so I could grab it, his hands warm on my waist. He'd lean over to check my measurements, and I'd steal a kiss when he wasn't expecting it, grinning at the way his cheeks flushed pink.
When I managed to get sawdust in my hair—which happened with embarrassing frequency—his fingers would card through it gently, clearing the debris with touches that lingered longer than strictly necessary.
“You're terrible at this,” he said around noon, watching me attempt to sort boards by grade with what was clearly minimal success.
“I'm learning,” I protested, then promptly proved his point by dropping an entire armload of two-by-fours. “Okay, maybe I'm terrible at this.”
Evan laughed, the sound rich and warm in the cavernous space of the mill. “Come here,” he said, pulling me close and pressing a kiss to my temple. “I'll teach you.”
And he did, with infinite patience and hands that guided mine through the proper techniques, stealing kisses between explanations until we were both grinning like idiots and the work felt more like an elaborate excuse to touch each other.
By lunch time, we'd made serious progress on the inventory, and I was discovering muscles I'd forgotten I had. But there was something satisfying about the ache, about earning sweat and sawdust through honest work alongside someone who looked at me like I was worth the effort of teaching.
“Thanks,” Evan said as we cleaned up, storing tools with the kind of methodical care that spoke of years of practice. “For helping. For wanting to help.”
“Thanks for not letting me get squished by lumber.”
“Anytime.”
I wiped my hands on a rag that had seen better days, working up the courage for what I wanted to ask next.
“So, would you maybe want to come by for dinner tonight?
Mom's been asking when she'd get to feed you again, and I figured...” I trailed off, suddenly nervous in ways that were ridiculous given everything we'd been through. “I mean, if you want to.”
Evan's smile was soft and real and exactly the kind of thing that made my chest do stupid, complicated things. “I'd like that. What time?”
“Six? Seven? Whenever you can escape from lumber duty.”
“I'll be there.”
The promise hung between us, loaded with more weight than dinner plans should carry.
Maybe it was the sawdust in the air or the way the afternoon light was hitting his face, but suddenly I was very aware of how close we were standing, how his shirt clung to his shoulders after a morning of manual labor, how his hair was messed up in ways that made my fingers itch to fix it.
“Good,” I said, voice coming out rougher than I'd intended. “That's... good.”
Evan took a step closer, close enough that I could smell pine resin and honest sweat and something indefinably wild that was purely him. “Is it?”
“Yeah,” I breathed, suddenly having trouble remembering why breathing was supposed to be an automatic function. “Mom's making her famous lasagna. You'll love it.”