Chapter 10
Dean
The drawer sticks again.
I brace one hand against the counter and yank, harder this time, and it finally gives with a groan. Inside: a mess of screwdrivers, mismatched nails, a handful of old receipts I should’ve thrown out two years ago. No idea how I let her talk me into organizing it.
Harper hums behind me, arranging the spice cabinet like it’s her job. “You keep your flathead screwdrivers next to the cinnamon. That’s bold.”
“It’s temporary.”
“So’s your filing system, apparently.” She holds up a crumpled receipt. “You bought a gallon of wood glue in 2021?”
“I had plans.”
“You and Boris have a lot in common,” she says, smiling softly as she leans against the kitchen counter. “Stubborn, a little broken, still trying to be useful.”
I grunt, even though her words hit closer than they should. She’s been here over a week now. Long enough to rearrange half my kitchen, fill the cabin with her humming and her ridiculous coffee orders, and wedge herself so neatly into my days that the thought of her leaving makes my chest go tight.
“Need help?” she asks.
“No.”
She comes over anyway.
Kneeling beside me, she rests her hand lightly on my arm. “I can sort. You can grunt and do the heavy lifting.”
It’s easier to let her than to argue. We sit side by side on the wood floor, Harper cross-legged in her fuzzy socks, making neat piles of tools while I pretend I’m not painfully aware of how close she is.
She picks up an old, battered multi-tool. “This one looks like it’s been through hell.”
I take it from her, running a thumb over the scratched metal casing. “It has.”
She doesn’t ask. Just watches me, quiet, like she knows if she stays still long enough, I’ll start talking.
“I used to carry this every day,” I hear myself say. “When I was with the crew.”
“Fire department?”
I nod once. “Missoula Hotshots. Forest service unit. We did wildfire suppression all over the Northwest.”
Her brow furrows, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Ten-man team. Summers were long. Heat, smoke, no sleep, living out of a pack. But it made sense to me. Kept my hands busy. Gave me rules. Noise. Until… there was a fire that got away from us. I lost several on my team that day. And then, it wasn’t for me anymore.”
I don’t mention the names. The mistake I still see in my sleep. The sound of trees going up like matchsticks.
Harper’s quiet for a moment. Then she sets the tool down gently and covers my hand with hers.
“You’re not doing nothing here, Dean,” she says softly. “Just so you know.”
The words shouldn’t land so hard. But they do.
I don’t say thank you. Don’t know if I could get the words out even if I wanted to.
So instead, I stand and reach into the back of the cabinet, pulling out a small, flat box.
“Thought this got lost a long time ago.” I flip the lid and hold it out to her.
She takes it carefully. Inside: old flint, a metal compass, a folded topo map of the surrounding forest. A worn patch from the Hotshots.
“You can keep it,” I say. “For your emergency bag.”
She looks up, surprised. “Seriously?”
“Unless you name your first-aid kit something ridiculous. Then I’m taking it back.”
“I was thinking ‘Sir Gauze-a-Lot,’ actually.”
I snort. “Of course you were.”
We clean the rest of the drawer in silence, working in an easy rhythm. When we finish, she insists on making grilled cheese for dinner. I let her, hovering in the kitchen just to make sure she doesn’t start a grease fire.
We eat on the couch, knees touching, the fire popping quietly in the hearth.
Harper curls her fingers around her mug. “Do you ever miss it? The fire crew?”
“Every day.”
She nods like she understands, like she misses something too.
I watch her for a moment, silhouetted in the flickering light. She doesn’t press me for more. She never pushes. But somehow, she sees through the silence anyway. Like she’s figured out the code and knows when not to speak it aloud.
I set my mug down, suddenly restless.
“Come with me.”
She blinks. “Where?”
“Out back.”
She follows without question, bundling into her coat and tugging on her boots. We step out into the crisp night. The snow crunches underfoot, but the wind has finally died. The sky is impossibly clear. Stars burn like cold fire above us.
I lead her down a narrow trail through the trees behind the cabin. We don’t speak. Just breathe.
At the edge of the woods, the trees fall away to a small clearing. In the center: a stone bench I carved years ago, before everything got too heavy.
Harper lets out a quiet breath. “This is beautiful.”
I sit first, gesturing for her to join me.
We sit shoulder to shoulder, our breath misting in the air, the whole world silent but for the distant howl of a coyote.
“This is where I come when it gets loud in my head,” I say.
Harper doesn’t look at me. “It’s where you go to be alone.”
“Usually.”
She nods slowly. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
I don’t respond. Just lean back and let the silence stretch between us like a thread—tight, fragile, but unbroken.
She places her hand on my thigh.
Something in me snaps.
Without a word, I reach out and grab her waist, tugging her forward until she’s straddling my lap.
Her eyes go wide, but she doesn’t stop me.
Her hands brace on my chest, breath catching as her hips settle over mine.
I’m already hard, have been for most of this damn day.
And now there’s no hiding it. The thick ridge of my erection presses right up against her, and a soft, startled sound escapes her throat.
“Dean...” It’s a breath, not a warning.
I cup the back of her neck and pull her in.
The kiss is deep and slow and reverent, like I need to taste her just to remind myself she’s real. Her fingers dig into my shirt, her body pressing closer, and when we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
We stay like that for a beat. Foreheads pressed together, the fire crackling low behind us, the rest of the world falling away.
Then I move.
I stand abruptly, hauling her up with me like she weighs nothing. She yelps in surprise as I toss her over my shoulder, her laughter muffled against my back.
“Dean!”
I don’t answer.
I just carry her inside, one hand on the curve of her ass, and kick the door shut behind us.
She screams my name three more times before I let her fall asleep early the next morning.