Chapter 12
From Ashes to Us
Cam
“What the hell?!”
The smoke alarm continues to shriek, like a banshee on a bender, and I’m standing in a haze of acrid gray, clutching a spatula like I’m about to duel the smoke itself.
The gamjatang—what was supposed to be rich, marrow-deep Korean comfort food—now looks like something hell’s cafeteria rejected.
The kitchen looks like a crime scene—culinary homicide.
When Tara walks in, I brace for anger. Maybe disappointment. At best, a smirk. What I don’t brace for is the sound that breaks out of her—pure, belly-deep laughter. She takes one look at me, soot-smudged and brandishing utensils like weapons, and doubles over, giggles spilling unrestrained.
It’s real. The kind of laugh that slips past her armor and feels like sunlight I didn’t realize I needed.
“Well,” she manages between gasps, “this is not what I expected to come home to.”
Home. That word from her lips… it hits different.
“I can explain,” I start, though I’ve got no idea how to justify leaving a perfectly good stew unsupervised while I went jogging on a concussed brain.
“Please do.” She’s grinning, and even through the smoke, she’s the most beautiful damn thing I’ve ever seen.
The truth? I thought cooking might shake the shadow off her. That scarf. That text. The way her whole body tensed when she saw it—made me want to bulldoze the world for her. But since I’m not cleared for demolition—or hockey fights—I went domestic instead.
Started a fancy comfort stew, cleaned out the fridge, even hung photos—three of her with friends and one of us I snuck in—laser-leveled like proof we belonged. Just… something that feels like normalcy. Something safe.
And then I went and forgot the damn stew. Great job, Wilder. Almost burned down the one sanctuary she actually breathes in.
“Okay, so—Vicky takes you shopping, I get domestic inspiration. Thought I’d surprise you with gamjatang. Pork neck bones, potatoes, perilla—my Korean and Danish ancestors would’ve given me a standing ovation.” I wave the spatula, ash falling like confetti at a loser’s parade.
“And?”
“And it was perfect. Three hours of babying, tasting, adjusting—it was on its way to Michelin-star magic. While it simmered, I cleaned out the fridge, hung some pictures.” I rake a hand through my hair, probably smearing soot worse.
“Then I figured, hey, quick run before Tara returns from her retail therapy.”
Her eyes soften as it clicks. “You forgot about the stew.”
I groan. “Swore I turned the stove off. Apparently I didn’t. Came back from my run to find my audition reel for Hell’s Kitchen: Concussion Special.”
She steps closer, brushing soot from my cheek with the gentlest touch. Grounding.
“The important thing is you’re okay,” she says.
“The important thing is I nearly burned down your house.” I catch her hand, press it to my face, the guilt sharp. “Some protector I am—can’t even trust myself not to torch the place.”
“Cam.” Her voice has that quiet authority she uses when I spiral. “Accidents happen. Even to people without brain injuries.”
Before I can argue, sirens slice the air.
Her brows lift. “You called the fire department.”
“I didn’t call anyone. I just got here—busy putting the damn fire out.”
Red lights flicker through the smoke-hazed window. Trucks. Sirens cut as they park out front.
“Maybe someone saw the smoke or heard the alarm,” Tara murmurs.
And then the door bangs open.
“Fire department!” Scott Maddox’s voice barrels into the house, all authority and zero subtlety.
Boots thud across the hardwood, and through the haze comes the broad-shouldered shape of Scott Maddox in full gear. Helmet, turnout coat, gloves—he looks like the poster boy for “Firefighter of the Year.”
Behind him, two more crew fan out, already scanning for flames I’ve mostly murdered with the extinguisher.
Scott yanks off his helmet, coughs at the smoke, and stares at me—spatula still in one hand, fire extinguisher in the other. His grin spreads slow, wicked.
“Wilder,” he says, voice booming like he’s announcing my crime to the entire town. “I’ve seen you take down three-hundred-pound defensemen without blinking. How does soup defeat you?”
“Stew,” I correct, coughing through the haze. “Get it right. If I’m going down in flames, at least use the proper terminology.”
He steps closer, sniffing the air. “It smells like burnt despair.”
Laughter ripples through his crew. Tara bites her lip like she’s trying not to join them, but her shoulders are shaking. Traitor.
“Hey, what’s the difference between a hockey player and a firefighter?” I shoot back, because if I’m going to be the butt of this joke, I’m taking someone down with me.
“Don’t,” Scott warns light-heartedly, pointing a finger at me. “I’ve heard all your jokes.”
“The hockey player only gets burned for penalties,” Tara finishes, stepping between us with a smirk.
Scott groans, I laugh, because even in the middle of this disaster, Tara’s got my back—and my jokes.
“It’s not even that funny.”
Before Scott fires back, another voice cuts in—female, sharp with concern. “Is everyone okay?”
A woman in yoga pants and a tank top appears in the kitchen doorway—late-twenties, blond hair, concerned blue eyes.
"I'm Jamie," she says, looking between Tara and me. "I err… I just moved in next door. I'm the one who called the fire department when I heard the alarm going off."
"Thank you," Tara says immediately. "That was smart thinking."
Scott's entire demeanor shifts. Goes from casual firefighter to something more alert, more aware. "Jamie?"
"Scott?" Her voice carries surprise and something else—recognition? History?
The air between them crackles with the kind of tension that has nothing to do with house fires and everything to do with unfinished business.
"So you're back in town?" Scott asks, and there's a careful casualness to the question that screams volumes.
"Just moved in two days ago," Jamie replies, equally careful. "Didn't know you were still..."
"Still what?"
"Still here."
I glance at Tara. She’s watching the exchange like she’s got popcorn. We both know what we’re seeing—the first flicker of Cedar Falls’ next love story.
"Well," Scott clears his throat, professional mask sliding back into place. "Welcome back to Cedar Falls. Try to keep your new neighbors from burning the town down."
"Hey," I protest. "I resent that implication."
"You literally almost burned the place down," Tara points out, with the sweetest smile.
"Details."
Jamie laughs—a warm, genuine sound that makes Scott's expression soften around the edges. "I'll keep an ear out," she promises.
By the time the trucks pull away and Jamie heads home—after Scott somehow finds three excuses to give her his number—Tara and I are left standing in the smoky wreckage, surveying the damage.
Tara moves to the sink, grabbing a sponge and starting to clean up.
“I’ll do that.” The guilt twists in my gut.
“No worries.” She glances at me, and there’s a flicker of concern in her eyes.
I step closer. “I’m fine.”
“Mm-hm.” She doesn’t argue. Just keeps scrubbing like cleaning soot is just another shift at the Bistro.
“Cam, wanna talk about it.” Her voice is warm and careful, like she’s setting the door open without shoving me through it.
“I’m fine,” I cut her off, stepping closer, guilt gnawing at me. “Really. Just… I guess I was distracted.”
“Go on.” She sets the sponge down, turning to face me fully.
I look away, running a hand through my hair. “Maybe. I don’t know. I thought I was getting better, but…”
“But I’m not,” I admit, the words coming out harsher than I intended. “I’m not better, Tara. And I hate it.”
Her expression softens, and she steps closer, her hand finding mine. “PCS recovery isn’t a straight line. You don’t see it, but I do. You’re better than you were a month ago. Better than last week. Being here with you every day—I can tell. And that’s what matters.”
I want to believe her, but the guilt sits heavy in my chest. “I almost burned the house down, Tara. What if you’d been here? What if—”
“What if nothing,” she cuts in, squeezing my hand before I can spiral further. “You didn’t. End of story.”
The air leaves me in a shaky exhale, tension loosening under her touch. “You’re too good to me, Rookie.”
“Someone has to be,” she teases, her smile warming me more than any stove ever could.
We clean up in comfortable silence, the kind that only comes when you’re past the small talk and into the real stuff.
"So," she says, opening windows to clear the remaining smoke. "Thai takeout?"
"Actually," I say, an idea forming. "I know exactly where we should go."
Sugar Mill Lofts welcomes us once again. I’ve had the place sitting empty since Lily set me up here for recovery. Tonight it feels less like wasted rent and more like a lifesaver.
"We don't have to stay here," she says, but I can hear the relief in her voice.
“And make you sit in that kitchen, breathing smoke? Not happening.” I shoot her a wry smile. “Besides, I’m too delicate to survive the town parading through with casseroles and pity. Hard pass.”
I dig clothes out of my duffel, trying not to think about how it feels like another failure. Another reminder I’m not the reliable protector she deserves.
"Cam." She appears in the bedroom doorway, still smoky but gorgeous. "Stop beating yourself up.”
"I'm not—"
"You're doing that thing where you carry everyone else's problems plus your own. I can practically see the weight of it on your shoulders."
She crosses to me, takes the shirt I'm folding out of my hands, and sets it aside. Then she stays close, tilting her chin until I meet her eyes. Her hands come up, warm and steady, framing my face.
“Listen to me very carefully,” she says, thumbs brushing soot I hadn’t noticed. “I know tonight was the opposite of what you’d planned for me. But the effort? That told me more than any perfect meal ever could.”