Epilogue
Clay-two months later
The kiln ticks softly in the corner, still cooling.
The scent of wet clay and lemon oil lingers in the air—Ember’s scent.
Sunlight bleeds in through the wide windows, spilling golden light across the half-finished mugs lining the shelves and the tiny handprints pressed into a drying slab on the table from this morning’s fire safety workshop.
Our place. Our chaos. Our home away from home.
Ember & Clay Studio is carved into the wood sign swinging outside, painted with a brushstroke flame. She opened her new studio next to the firehouse—a compromise. She gets her studio and I use the spare room in back to teach the kiddos fire safety. And I get to keep an eye on her.
I wipe the sweat off my brow, toss the last of the kid-sized helmets into a basket, and glance at the clock. Almost closing time.
She’s late. Again.
“Firecracker,” I mutter under my breath, already smirking.
The front door bursts open, the bell above it jingling like a wind chime in a storm.
She blows in like she owns the place—which she does—and carries the damn weather with her.
Cheeks flushed, curls a mess, laughing at something on her phone as she kicks the door shut behind her with one booted foot.
“Sorry, I got stuck at the co-op,” she says breathlessly, dumping her purse on the counter. “Darla caught me and gave me a twenty-minute monologue about her cat’s health issues. And then somehow I got roped into hosting a mug-painting night for the ladies’ knitting circle.”
I cross my arms. “Is that before or after the bake sale, Firecracker?”
“Laugh it up, Fireman. These town ladies are cutthroat. They nearly shanked each other over the last slice of blackberry pie.”
I step around the counter, slide a hand around her waist. “You smell like cinnamon and chaos.”
She grins, curling her fingers in my shirt. “You love it.”
“Unfortunately.”
Her gaze softens as she leans in. “You look tired. Long day?”
“Kids nearly lit the fake firetruck on fire. You’d think letting ‘em play with a fog machine and fire hats would be low risk. It wasn’t.”
“Sounds like a raging success.” She pecks my cheek, then notices the small dish I’d placed on the table behind me. “What’s this?”
She moves toward it before I can answer. A ceramic dish, hand-thrown, glazed in a deep amber with the shape of a flame molded at the center.
She lifts it with careful hands, eyes wide. “Did you make this?”
I nod once.
She turns it over, reading the gold lettering inscribed on the bottom. “‘To my fireproof heart.’”
She looks at me, and for a second, all that wildfire in her eyes stills.
“Clay.” Her voice wavers. “This is… it’s beautiful.”
I step closer, take the dish from her hands, set it down. Then I drop to one knee.
Her breath catches.
I don’t give her a speech. I’ve never been good with pretty words. But I’ve been working this moment over in my head for weeks. I want her to feel it like a tremor in her bones.
I grab her hand, hold her knuckles to my lips. “You lit me up, Firecracker. Burned through all the ash and made me want more.”
She swallows. “Clay—”
I pull out the ring. Simple, gold, engraved with the word home inside the band.
“I want to marry you. I want to wake up beside you and fall asleep with your hair in my mouth because you’re a bed hog. I want to argue over curtain colors and listen to you cuss under your breath when you spill glaze on your jeans.”
She’s full-on crying now, mascara streaking down her cheeks, smile trembling.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. So marry me, Ember Quinn. Make me your husband, your partner, your fool forever.”
“Yes.” It bursts out of her like a laugh, like a sob, like every damn thing I’ve ever wanted to hear. “Yes. A thousand times yes.”
I slide the ring on her finger, and she drops to her knees, wrapping her arms around my neck. We collapse into each other, mouths meeting with years of heat and hope and relief.
She tastes like fire and sugar. My favorite addiction.
I pull back just enough to see her face. “You crying because I’m sentimental now? Told you I had layers.”
She huffs a laugh and kisses my jaw. “You’re a gooey cinnamon roll wrapped in firefighter bravado.”
I growl. “You better take that back.”
“Nope. I stand by it.” She grins against my lips, then leans back on her heels and bites her lip like she’s holding something back.
“What?”
She reaches into her oversized purse, digs around, and pulls out a white plastic stick.
My brain doesn’t catch up right away.
“You…?”
She hands it to me. Two lines.
Positive.
The world tilts.
“Firecracker,” I whisper, voice gone. “You’re pregnant?”
She nods, teary again. “I took it this morning. I wasn’t sure how to tell you. Then you go and make me cry twice in one day, and—”
I lift her off the floor in one smooth motion, her laughter ringing through the studio. I carry her across the room, past her wheel and my tools, through the back office, and into the studio’s private loft where we sometimes nap or escape on long workdays.
I set her on the couch, yank the blinds closed, and sink to my knees between her thighs.
“You’re mine,” I murmur, hands on her hips, dragging her shirt up slowly. “All of you. Forever.”
She tangles her fingers in my hair. “Forever sounds good.”
“Good,” I mutter against her belly. “Because I’m never lettin’ you go.”
She gasps as I lift her higher, her thighs hooked over my shoulders.
“I should take you home first—”
“No,” she breathes, eyes dark. “Here. Now.”
So I do.
I worship her in the space we built together. Her body curves under mine like we were cut from the same flame. Her hips rise to meet every thrust. Her nails rake down my back like she’s trying to brand me.
I kiss her until she sobs into my mouth. Until she falls apart in my hands.
And then I join her—spilling into the woman who lit a fire in me so fierce, I’ll never burn out.
Later, when our bodies are tangled in a mess of sweat and blankets, she whispers, “We’re really doing this, huh?”
I nod, stroking a thumb over her stomach. “Yeah, Firecracker. We are.”
“I hope the baby’s wild.”
I snort. “No doubt about that.”
“You think we’ll be good at this? Parents?”
I roll her onto her back, pin her with a look. “You made me want to live again. You think I won’t fight tooth and nail to be the kind of dad our kid deserves?”
She brushes a hand over my stubble, soft and slow. “You’re gonna be amazing.”
I tuck my face into her neck, hold her tighter. “You already are.”
Outside, Copper Mountain is quiet. Peaceful.
But in this loft, wrapped around the only woman I’ll ever love, I know one thing for sure—
I’m fireproof now.
Because she’s my flame.
And I’m never going out.