Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
After Zane had driven her back to her parents’ house—despite her protests—Asha had declined his offer to stay with him, insisting she could manage on her own. She employed a contractor to repair the worst of the damage, although it took her several calls and all her courtroom convincing skill to get one fast. They hadn’t been cheap, but it was worth every penny. They replaced the shattered windows, repainting the smoke-stained walls, and installing new upper cabinets. Sections of the countertop had to be cut out and reworked, and though the finishes didn’t match perfectly, the kitchen was functional again. What remained now was the grime and soot the cleaning crew hadn’t quite gotten to, and the lingering sense that the fire had left more than just physical scars.
Asha sighed and pushed herself into motion. Standing there wouldn’t fix anything. She grabbed a roll of garbage bags from under the sink and yanked down the scorched curtains, the fabric crumbling as she stuffed it into the bag. She turned to the counters, where she attacked the streaks and grime with purposeful, methodical strokes, the repetitive motion grounding her as she scrubbed.
The floors came next, each sweep of the mop feeling like a small victory, even as sweat gathered at her temples and her arms ached. While she worked, her thoughts ticked over the list of what might still be salvageable—the sink only needed a deep clean—but the stove was a total loss.
By the time she paused to catch her breath, she already had her phone in hand, scrolling through appliance options. A sleek, modern stove with a stainless-steel finish caught her eye, and without hesitation, she hit the order button. Progress, however small, felt like a lifeline.
Asha leaned back against the counter, exhaustion pressing down on her like a physical weight. She drew a slow breath, letting her gaze drift to the streaked glass of the window above the sink. Her hands rested on the edge of the counter, fingers curling against the cool surface as she tried to center herself.
She hadn’t slept much the night before—not with her parents in the hospital and the oppressive weight of Zane’s presence pressing into every corner of her mind. He’d always had a way of getting under her skin, but now, after everything, it was different. More complicated.
The sharp knock on the door startled her. She reacted with a faint jump, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she moved to answer. Crossing the living room, she peeked out and felt her stomach flip at the sight of Zane standing on the porch, toolbox in hand.
“What are you doing here?” She pulled the door open a fraction, more abrupt than she’d intended.
He narrowed his gaze and glanced past her shoulder toward the faint scorch marks near the kitchen doorway. “Fire tends to leave a mess. Thought I’d take a look if you need help.”
She tightened her grip on the door, unsure whether to feel annoyed or grateful. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know,” he said evenly, calm but unyielding. “Let me in, Asha.”
Her instinct was to refuse, to tell him she had it under control, but the way he raised one eyebrow at her—the quiet resolve that had always managed to both comfort and irritate her—made it impossible to argue. With a sigh, she stepped aside to let him in.
Zane moved past her, his broad shoulders brushing the edge of the doorframe, and set his toolbox on the counter. He surveyed the kitchen with a critical eye, his brow furrowing as he muttered under his breath. Running a hand over the scorched paneling near the stove, he appeared to assess the extent of the damage with practiced ease.
“You’ve been scrubbing at this, haven’t you?” he asked without looking at her.
Asha crossed her arms, leaning against the doorway. “I’m trying to get rid of the smoke smell.”
He turned, sliding his gaze over her. “You’re doing too much.”
Her jaw tightened, and she mirrored his scrutinizing stare. “I’m fine.”
“Asha.” His voice dropped, low and firm, carrying the same commanding edge he’d used in the hospital cafeteria. It cut through her defenses like a blade, sharp and impossible to ignore. Her pulse skipped, unbidden, and she hated how much that tone still got to her.
“You’ve got enough on your plate with your parents,” he said, softer now but no less resolute. “Let me help with this.”
She dropped her gaze, focusing on the scuffed linoleum floor. “I can handle it,” she muttered, more for herself than him.
“You shouldn’t have to handle it alone.”
His quiet conviction made her chest ache. She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat refusing to budge.
When she had composed herself and looked up, he was already pulling tools from his box, his movements steady and deliberate, as if her refusal had never even crossed his mind.
“You don’t have to do this,” she murmured.
“I know,” he replied, not glancing back, “but I’m doing it anyway.”
Zane ran a hand over the edge of the stove as he straightened, sweeping his gaze over the now-spotless kitchen. He lingered on the floor near the stove, where faint scorch marks stubbornly remained despite Asha’s efforts.
He frowned and gestured toward the floor. “These marks—did you check underneath?”
Asha followed his gaze, then pulled her phone from her pocket. “No, but I’m ordering new linoleum anyway. It’s not worth keeping.”
“Hang on.” Zane stepped toward her, holding out a hand to stop her. “We need to be sure the floorboards aren’t burned, too. No sense putting new flooring over damage.”
Before she could protest, he pulled a Leatherman from his back pocket, dropped to his knees, and began peeling back the edges of the linoleum. The motion was quick, practiced, as if he’d done it a hundred times before.
“You don’t have to fix everything, you know.” Her sharpness surprised her.
Zane paused mid-motion, glancing over his shoulder with one brow raised. “That’s funny, coming from you.”
Her frown deepened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He sat back on his heels, still holding the tool. “It means you’ve spent this whole time trying to convince everyone you don’t need help, even when you clearly do.”
Heat rushed to her face, the frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “I’m managing just fine,” she snapped, folding her arms defensively.
Zane stood, closing the small distance between them. His eyes locked onto hers, unwavering. “Are you?”
Her breath caught, her heart thudding painfully. He was too close—his height and presence overwhelming—and the intensity in his gaze made her want to look away, to run from whatever he might see in her.
She turned abruptly, grabbed a dish towel from the counter, and pretended to wipe at a nonexistent spot. “You don’t get to judge me, Zane.”
“I’m not judging you.” Zane’s expression was sincere, his tone gentler now. “I’m worried about you.”
His sincerity struck her like a punch to the gut, and she tightened her fingers around the towel as she tried to keep her emotions in check. “I don’t need your worry,” she muttered.
“You might not need it,” he stated, “but you’ve got it anyway.”
The weight of his words lingered in the air. Asha clenched her jaw, trying to ignore the way her throat tightened and her chest ached. She didn’t want this—his concern, his care, and the way he could still make her feel like the center of his world.
Because that meant opening herself to things she couldn’t afford to face—not now, maybe not ever.
And yet, as she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, the stubborn set of his jaw and the quiet determination in his gaze made it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.
Zane held her gaze for a moment longer, the air between them heavy with things left unsaid. Asha turned away abruptly, gripping a dish towel like it was a lifeline. He didn’t miss the tension in her shoulders or the way her jaw tightened as she muttered about not needing his worry.
She might not want it, but she had it anyway.
The words had come out softer than he intended, but they communicated his feelings, the concern she refused to acknowledge. Zane didn’t need to hear her story to know it was eating at her. Whatever had driven her to leave, to stay away all these years, it wasn’t only ambition.
He lingered on her for a moment, watching as she scrubbed at the counter with short, sharp motions. There was something so familiar in the way she buried herself in tasks, like if she worked hard enough, she could scrub the cracks in her armor clean.
But those cracks were there—he could see them—and they made him want to reach out, to steady her, to remind her she didn’t have to carry everything alone.
Instead, he shifted his focus to the floor beneath the stove, where faint scorch marks were still visible, even after her relentless cleaning. He crouched, running his fingers over the edges of the linoleum. The motion was quick, precise—a practiced ease from years of dealing with the aftermath of fires. The floorboards were charred on the surface but solid underneath. Relief flickered in him.
At least something was holding steady.
But as he rose and turned back to Asha, that relief faded. She was still standing there, her arms crossed, her gaze darting between him and the floor, as if she was bracing for his next move.
She wasn’t simply standing on solid floorboards—she was holding up walls. Thick, immovable walls.
Zane studied her, his frustration growing. There was something she wasn’t telling him, something she was holding onto with the same stubbornness she’d always had. But this time, it wasn’t the carefree, headstrong girl he remembered. This was a woman who carried a burden too heavy to share, and it made his chest ache. She was more layered, complicated, and guarded. And it made him want to dig deeper.
If it was only his physical reaction to her, he could ignore it. He wasn’t a kid anymore; he knew how to keep his impulses in check. But it wasn’t that. It was the way she moved through the room, strong and resilient, but with cracks beneath the surface. He was drawn to her strength, to the quiet fire she carried now. And he was determined to find the vulnerable soul she kept hidden behind her walls.
What had happened to his carefree, beautiful girl? The one who’d laughed with him on prom night, who’d made him feel invincible before she broke his heart? Her answers about leaving Peaceful were too polished, too rehearsed, like walls she’d built with brick and mortar, solid as the stone foundation of a Civil War fort. Zane could see the fractures, but she wasn’t about to let him in.
Where was the girl he’d wanted to grow old with when he wasn’t even old enough to legally order a beer in Ohio? That girl was still there—he was sure of it—but she was buried beneath something heavy.
He knew when to push and when to wait. That was part of the job, both as a firefighter and as a man who’d spent his life reading people. A wildfire didn’t respond to brute force; it required patience, strategy, and knowing when to act. And Asha? She was her own wildfire—beautiful and unpredictable, capable of burning everything around her if approached the wrong way.
As with a wildfire, he knew better than to rush in blindly. Act, yes—but with care and purpose.
As she stood so close, her shampoo and the faint scent of cleaning products lingered in the air between them. There was a trace of sweet, clean sweat beneath it all, and it made him want to close the distance between them and kiss her until she let go of whatever was keeping her from him.
Zane held back. This wasn’t the time to act on impulse. As with the fires he fought, his emotions couldn’t get in the way of common sense.
He knew what he needed to do. He’d insert himself into her life, whether she liked it or not. Be steady. Be there. Shower her with kindness and attention until she let him in.
Because once she opened to him, he’d get the answers he was looking for—and maybe, just maybe, they’d be able to put the past to rest after all those years.