Chapter 3
Lo
Okay.
Okay. Ow.
Everything hurts. Like, everything everything. My ribs, my skull, my hip, my pride. Especially my pride.
Also… where the hell am I?
I blink up at a ceiling fan turning really slow. Lazy Sunday slow. Slow enough that I can count the rotations of the blades.
I try to sit up and instantly regret being born. There’s a stabbing pain in my ribs, my head spins, and the blanket over me smells of—
Oh no.
Nope.
Abort.
That smell? Smoked cedar and vanilla bourbon.
That smell is Beckett Calloway.
And he’s everywhere.
It’s not a hint of cologne or some faint memory of a shirt. It’s baked into this room. Into the pillow. Into the blanket tossed over me. Into me.
My dumb, feverish-fogged brain takes one inhale, and immediately, my body begins singing love songs I somehow still know the words to.
Yeah. I remember.
I remember too well.
My thighs clench on instinct, which is a terrible idea. My entire body flares with leftover fire, sharp and fast and hot under my skin.
The exhaustion’s still hanging around, a bad perfume on a borrowed sweater. Awkward, messy, and way too into my business.
And Beck’s scent?
It’s gasoline on a fire.
God. I’m sweating.
My teeth are clattering.
My thighs ache.
My core feels much too empty.
Cool. Real cool. Definitely not unhinged or spiraling.
I try to shift, but even breathing hurts. So, I just sort of… exist. In a hot, aching pile of disaster, I lie there as I watch the fan blades continue to turn above me, half-buried under a soft blanket that probably cost more than my last month of groceries.
Then the door creaks open.
I freeze, holding my breath so that I don’t betray my body with any more of that mouth-watering scent that I tried so hard to forget about over the years.
But there he is anyway.
Beck.
Looking way too big for the doorway and way too good for my sanity. Tired. Ruffled. Jaw set halfway between “worried” and “deeply unimpressed with my life choices.”
He sees me awake and stops short.
“You’re up.”
“Allegedly,” I croak.
My voice sounds like someone dragged it through gravel. Classy.
He takes a step into the room, but he’s not too close. Maybe I’m breakable. Or contagious.
Maybe he believes my bad luck will rub off on him. I’d like to rub something off on—
Shut. Up.
For once, the voice in my head wins.
“You need to stay down,” he says, and I don’t even realize I’m trying to prop myself up until he speaks. “Dr. Quinn said no moving.”
I pause. That makes me blink. “Dr. Quinn was here?”
“Of course he was, and he was firm. You can’t move.”
I ease myself back down and try to smile, but it mostly comes out more of a grimace. Beck doesn’t smile back, but his mouth twitches like he might if this were less tragic and I were less pathetic.
Less… me.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he says after a second.
I look away. Add that to the list of wrongs I’ve done to him.
“I scare a lot of people,” I mutter as I go back to staring up at the fan. “It’s part of my charm.”
He doesn’t laugh. Just stands there, arms crossed, eyes scanning me, trying to figure out if I’m still about to combust. Honestly, I kind of am.
“Look,” I say, “I’m not… I didn’t crash because of some heat thing, okay? I’m just wrecked. No sleep, no food, three states of white-knuckling the wheel and pretending I’m fine. Spoiler alert: I’m not.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“Maybe not,” I say with a shrug that hurts way too much, “but I still feel like I need to give one since I passed out in your arms like some tragic-ass movie character.”
That gets something. A half-smile. A little exhale through his nose. Not quite forgiveness, but not judgment either.
Progress.
Maybe.
“Dr. Quinn said you need fluids. Food. Sleep.” His voice is like rain. Rejuvenating and fresh.
“Sounds fake,” I whisper.
Beck rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. He just watches me, like he’s still not sure I’m real.
And honestly?
I’m not sure I am, either.
Some days, I wish my life was nothing but a bad dream I could shake myself awake from.
Because this shouldn’t be happening. I shouldn’t be in this house. In this bed. Wrapped in the scent of the only guy who ever looked at me and saw me. All of me.
Not the rebel girl who wants drama. Or the Marsh daughter with expectations pressing down on her.
But I’m broken now.
And he still hasn’t told me to leave.
Why hasn’t he kicked me out?
I would kick me out.
He disappears for a minute. I hear cabinets open, the quiet clink of a mug, the low hum of his kettle coming to life. The sounds are so normal they almost hurt, heavy with something familiar that I haven’t allowed myself to think about in a very long time.
When he comes back, he’s carrying a steaming mug in one hand and a small plate in the other.
Toast. Just toast with a little butter, cut diagonally like he used to do when I’d show up at his place half-starved after shifts at the flower shop.
Back when the worst thing in my life was being too tired to make myself dinner.
My chest twists.
“I didn’t know what you could keep down,” he says gruffly, setting the plate on the little table by the bed. “Figured bland was better.”
I swallow, ignoring the sting behind my eyes. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t respond. Just hands me the mug. Warm ceramic against my palms, smelling of chamomile and a hint of honey.
My favorite.
He remembered.
After all these years.
“Don’t gulp it,” he warns, settling into the chair across the room. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
“Yes, Dad,” I mutter, but the words come out too soft to land with any real bite.
He huffs, but his gaze is still locked on me, careful and assessing.
I take a small sip, then another, the tea sliding warm down my throat. My stomach growls at the smell of toast, but it feels wrong to eat in front of him like this. I might as well be taking something I haven’t earned.
Still, I force myself to pick up a triangle, breaking off a corner to nibble.
After a while, the silence turns thick and awkward. I glance up to find him rubbing a hand over his jaw, as if he’s working up to something.
Finally, he speaks. “How long are you staying, Lo?”
I pause, crumbs stuck in my mouth. Chew. Swallow. Sip.
Anything to buy myself time.
“Not long,” I say carefully. “Just… until I can get back on my feet.”
His brow furrows. “Back on your feet, how?”
“Just… you know. Figure things out.”
“Lo.”
I roll my eyes. “God, you say my name like it’s a curse and a prayer at the same time.”
He ignores that. “You’re not fine, you know. You crashed your car into a goddamn parade float.”
I wince. “Yeah, well. Parade floats shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”
He snorts. “Sneak up on you? It was parked. In the middle of Main Street. You know how clogged the Winterfest Parade gets. It’s the biggest parade of the year.”
“Listen,” I mutter, picking at the crust of my toast, “I don’t need the victim blaming right now.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Still got that mouth on you, huh?”
“Still got those judgmental eyebrows on you, huh?”
He raises said eyebrows, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You want to know what these eyebrows have seen lately?”
I raise mine right back. “Oh god, is this about your weird firefighter cult again?”
“Cult?” He scoffs. “We’re literally saving people’s lives, Lo.”
“Yeah, yeah, noble profession, calendar shoots, heroic rescues, hot guys in suspenders… I know the brand.”
He gives me a look. “You think we actually wear suspenders?”
“I think your PR team would be stupid not to,” I shoot back.
He shakes his head, leaning back in the chair with a soft smile playing at his lips. “I’m the captain now, you know.”
That makes me pause mid-bite. “Wait. Seriously?”
“Seriously. And yes, suspenders are a staple part of the uniform.”
“Fire Captain Beckett Calloway.” I let out a low whistle. “Look at you, climbing ladders and saving lives.”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of pride he can’t hide. “Someone had to do it.”
“Congratulations,” I say quietly, meaning it more than I expected. “You always were good at keeping people safe.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Warmth, maybe. Or regret. I can’t tell anymore.
“What about you?” he asks after a beat. “Where have you been? What have you been doing all this time?”
I shrug, taking another small bite of toast to buy myself time. “This and that.”
“Lo.”
I sigh. “Investigative stuff. Environmental justice, pipeline protests, grassroots activism, whistleblowing when no one else will. You know. The usual ways to become a broke pariah.”
He lets out a low breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Of course you have.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means… you haven’t changed.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“No, I mean… you’re still you. Even after everything.”
I look away, swallowing hard. “Yeah, well. Being me hasn’t exactly worked out lately.”
“Maybe you were just… being you in the wrong places,” he says softly.
I snort, biting off another corner of toast. “That’s poetic. Did you learn that at fire captain school?”
“Nope,” he says, leaning forward with that infuriatingly calm steadiness of his. “Learned that from watching you burn yourself out trying to save this town when you were twenty.”
My throat tightens. I force another sip of tea to keep from choking on emotions I don’t have time for.
His forearms are exposed. Veins, and hair, and everything that always made him feel so… Alpha. My gaze falls to the way his elbows rest on his knees. Just that small movement toward me has flames licking up my spine.
“You always did like watching me,” I say lightly as I force my gaze to his, hoping the tease will cover the crack in my voice.
His gaze darkens, dropping to my mouth for half a second before meeting my eyes again. “Yeah. I did.”
Silence coils between us, heavy and hot.
For a second, I forget the pain. Forget the exhaustion. Forget that I’m a broke, half-conscious disaster in a stranger’s borrowed sweats.
For a second, it’s just us. Him and me. Beck and Lo. Sparks and gasoline.
Then I clear my throat and force a grin. “So, Captain Calloway, you got any leftover hero calendars lying around for your favorite washed-up investigator?”
His lips twitch. “Eat your toast, Lo.”
I do. Because for the first time in a long time, I’m not eating alone.