Epilogue
NEVE
Iwake up to the sound of water running.
The book is on the floor now. The lamp is off. He must have turned it off when he came in.
The shower is running behind the closed bathroom door, and underneath the sound of the water, I can smell it.
Smoke. Not my smoke—not the warm residue of a day spent making things.
Structure fire smoke. Chemical and sharp and soaked into fabric and hair and skin.
The kind of smoke that takes two washes to clear and still lingers in the seams of his turnout gear for days.
I get up. The hallway is quiet, Ember’s door is pulled shut, the nightlight glowing underneath it. She’s three and sleeps hard, the way children who are deeply certain of their safety sleep. She won’t hear anything.
I open the bathroom door. Steam rolls out, thick and warm. Through the glass, I can see him. Head down, both hands braced against the tile, water running over his shoulders and his back. Soot streaks across his arms, diluting gray and swirling toward the drain. He hasn’t heard me come in.
I pull my shirt over my head and step out of my shorts. The glass door opens quietly, and I step in behind him.
He turns. His eyes are tired, red-rimmed from the smoke, and there’s a smudge of ash along his jaw that the water hasn’t reached yet. I put my thumb against it and wipe it clean.
“Bad one?” I ask.
“Kitchen fire on the north side. Family of four.” He pauses. “Everyone got out.”
I hear what’s underneath those three words. I’ve been hearing it for five years. Everyone got out. This time. The relief and the vigilance braided together. The eight-year-old boy who knows that getting out is only the beginning of what a fire takes from you.
I step closer and press my mouth to his shoulder where the water is running warm. His hands come off the tile and find my waist.
“Everyone got out,” I say against his skin. “Come back to me now.”
I rise up on my toes and kiss him, slow and deep, tasting the faint bitterness of smoke still clinging to his lips. He groans into my mouth, the sound low and raw, and pulls me flush against him. Water cascades over us both, warm and insistent, as his hands slide down my back and grip my hips.
He breaks the kiss and turns me around, my back to his chest, and I brace my palms against the cool tile.
He cups my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple until it tightens under his touch.
The other hand slips between my legs, fingers parting me, finding my clit.
He rubs in tight, steady circles, the slick heat of the water and my own arousal making every stroke smooth and devastating.
“Graham—”
His name breaks on a gasp as pleasure coils tight and fast inside me.
The steam, his solid body behind me, the relentless rhythm of his fingers—it’s too much and exactly right.
I come hard, shuddering against him, my thighs trembling as waves of heat pulse through me.
Water streams down my breasts, over his arm, carrying away the last traces of the night’s ash.
I turn in his arms, still catching my breath, and reach for the soap. Lathering it between my palms, I look up at him through the spray and smile.
“My turn. Someone needs a thorough cleaning.”
I sink to my knees on the wet tile, water beating down on my shoulders. His cock is thick and hard, flushed dark, and I wrap my soapy hand around him first, stroking slowly from base to tip.
He hisses, one hand tangling gently in my wet hair.
I lean in and take him into my mouth, tongue swirling around the head before sliding down as far as I can.
I suck and lick, hollowing my cheeks, losing myself in the weight of him on my tongue, the low groans rumbling from his chest. His hips jerk once, twice, and I feel him fighting for control, thighs tense under my hands.
“Neve,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Up. Now.”
He urges me to my feet and kisses me fiercely, tasting himself on my lips.
His tongue strokes deep, hungry, like he can’t get enough.
Then he lifts me like I weigh nothing, powerful arms flexing under my thighs.
My back meets the cool tile, and I wrap my legs tight around his waist, ankles locked behind him.
He lines himself up and pushes into me in one smooth, deep thrust. The sudden stretch pulls a sharp gasp from my throat—he’s so thick, so hard, filling me completely. The heat of him, the way my body yields and grips around every inch, sends a shock of pleasure blooming low in my belly.
Graham sets a relentless rhythm, hips rolling hard and steady, driving into me over and over.
Every thrust hits that perfect spot deep inside, dragging sparks up my spine and making my toes curl.
The wet slap of skin on skin echoes off the tiles, loud and obscene beneath the steady rush of the shower.
Water streams down his shoulders, over his chest, and between our bodies where we’re joined, making everything slick and slippery.
I bury my face against his neck to muffle my cries, biting my lip hard as each powerful stroke punches the breath from my lungs. “Graham—oh God—”
“You’re so fucking hot like this,” he growls against my ear, voice rough and low. “So tight…you feel incredible. Every time I slide in, you squeeze me like you never want me to leave.”
His words send another rush of heat through me.
I can see the strain in his neck, the way his jaw clenches with every thrust, water tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones and dripping from his dark lashes.
His eyes are locked on mine—intense, almost feral—watching every flicker of pleasure cross my face.
I cling tighter to his arms, nails digging into slick, flexed biceps as he drives into me harder against the wall.
The pressure builds fast, coiling tighter and tighter until I can’t hold back.
I press my mouth to his shoulder, muffling a broken cry as I come hard, clenching around him in deep, rhythmic pulses that make my vision spark white at the edges.
Graham groans, deep and guttural. “That’s it, baby…fuck, you feel so good when you come on me.”
His hips stutter, then drive deep one last time as he follows, burying himself to the hilt. His whole body shudders against mine, muscles locking tight as he spills inside me in hot, pulsing waves.
We stand under the water until it starts to cool. He reaches past me and shuts it off, and the bathroom goes quiet. Just the drip from the showerhead and our breathing settling back down.
I towel off his shoulders because he lets me. Five years, and he still doesn’t move when I take care of him. He’s reverent, as though being tended is a language he learned late and can’t quite believe he’s fluent in.
We pass Ember’s door on the way back to bed. He pauses, the way he always does, and listens. Her breathing is steady behind the door. He nods once, to himself, and follows me.
In bed, he pulls me against him, chest to my back, his arm across my waist. The smoke smell is gone, replaced by soap and warm skin.
In six hours, he’ll be up before me. He’ll cross the courtyard in the dark, unlock my workshop, and strike the match for the first flame.
The pilot will catch, and the blue light will fill the room, and by the time I arrive with two coffees and the day’s first pour already planned in my head, the space will be warm.
He’s been doing it every morning for four years. The man who spent his life controlling fire, lighting one for me before the sun comes up. I asked him once if it still scares him.
“Every time,” he said. “That’s how I know it matters.”
The house is quiet. Ember is dreaming. Graham’s breathing evens out against the back of my neck, and his hand spreads flat across my stomach, warm and heavy and still.
I close my eyes. The last thing I smell before I fall asleep is soap and skin and the faintest trace of smoke he’ll never completely wash away.
I wouldn’t want him to.