Chapter 3
Sawyer
Tessa doesn’t settle into the house.
She changes it.
I notice it the first afternoon she’s here alone with Lacee.
I come home early from the station—paperwork done faster than expected, nerves pushing me out the door—and the cabin sounds different.
Lighter. There’s laughter drifting through the open windows, bright and unguarded, like it forgot it wasn’t supposed to live here anymore.
I pause on the porch.
That sound used to belong to this place. Before the fire. Before the silence.
I step inside and the scent of sugar and butter hits me square in the chest.
Cookies.
Lacee looks up from the counter, cheeks flushed, hair in a messy braid dusted with flour. “Dad! We made dough for chocolate chip and peanut butter cookies. She says it’s important to have options.”
Tessa stands beside her, hands dusted white, smile easy. Like she’s always belonged in this kitchen. Like she didn’t walk into my life less than forty-eight hours ago and tilt it off its axis.
“Options are important,” I manage.
Her eyes flick to mine. Hold.
Something unspoken passes between us—heat and caution braided tight.
Dinner happens easily. Too easily. Tessa moves through the kitchen like she knows where everything is, like she’s memorized the space in record time. Lacee talks nonstop, tells her about school and art projects and how Dad burns grilled cheese if he’s distracted.
“That’s slander,” I say.
Tessa grins. “I’ll reserve judgment until I see it.”
I should be annoyed.
I’m not.
After dinner, they make cookies while I sit at the table pretending not to watch. Lacee leans into Tessa’s side without thinking, comfortable in a way she hasn’t been with anyone since—I swallow—her mom.
Later, when Lacee disappears upstairs to shower, the house goes quiet again. The good kind. The kind that hums instead of echoes.
Tessa starts cleaning. I stop her with a look.
“Sit,” I say.
She raises a brow. “Is that an order?”
“It’s a suggestion,” I reply. “One you should take.”
She does. Slowly. Deliberately. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
We sit across from each other at the table, the space between us thick. Charged. I can feel it in my chest, in my hands, in the way my gaze keeps drifting to her mouth.
“You’re good with her,” I say finally.
Her expression softens. “She’s easy to love.”
The words hit harder than they should.
“So were you a risk-taker before Boulder,” I ask, “or is that new?”
She laughs quietly. “I didn’t feel like myself there anymore. Too many expectations. Too much noise.”
“Devil’s Peak isn’t exactly quiet. Logging trucks, construction, tourists,” I counter.
“No,” she says. “But it’s honest.”
I study her. The way she holds herself—open but not na?ve. Warm without being careless. She’s younger than me, yes. But there’s nothing fragile about her.
That makes it worse.
“You fit here,” I say before I can stop myself.
She stills.
“That’s dangerous talk for a man who just hired me.”
I lean back, unbothered. “Truth usually is.”
Her smile fades into something more serious. The air shifts.
“This job,” she says carefully, “means a lot to me. I don’t want things to be… complicated.”
I nod once. “Good. Because they won’t be.”
The lie settles between us.
Later that night, after Lacee’s asleep and the dishes are done, Tessa steps onto the porch with two mugs of tea. She hands me one without asking.
We sit side by side, the mountain air cool against our skin, the stars sharp overhead.
“Paperwork all day is killing me.” I rub a hand over my sore neck.
“No heroic fires to fight today?”
I shrug. “Captain benches me more these last few years, I still fight fires when they need me, but mostly I’m stuck at a desk pushing paper.”
“Do you ever miss it?” she asks softly.
I know what she means.
“Every day,” I answer. “Makes me feel useless. Like Captain thinks I’m too broken to depend on now, like I might fuck up, make the wrong decision in the heat of the moment. Like I need to be fixed.”
She doesn’t push. Doesn’t rush. Just sits with me in it.
“You don’t have to be fixed,” she says. “Just… here.”
Something in my chest gives.
I turn to her. She’s closer than I realized. Her breath warm. Her eyes steady.
I want her.
The realization lands hard. Clean. Terrifying.
I don’t touch her.
Instead, I say, “You should get some sleep.”
She nods. Stands. Hesitates.
“Goodnight, Sawyer.”
“Goodnight, Tessa.”
I watch her go, the house holding its breath around me.
The flame has caught.
And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to put it out.