Chapter 18
DIEGO
The morning heat pressed against everything like a wet cloth, making the firehouse bay feel smaller than usual.
Sweat beaded between my shoulder blades despite the industrial fans churning overhead.
The familiar cocktail of motor oil and last night’s Chinese takeout hung in the air, but all I could smell was the ghost of Gillian’s shampoo on my pillow.
I scrubbed harder at the boot in my lap, working the brush into grooves that were already spotless.
Third time this morning. The leather gleamed like black water, but I kept at it, anyway.
Better than thinking about how she’d looked when she told me about the promotion.
Better than remembering the careful way she’d said, ‘I don’t know,’ like she was trying not to break something that was already cracked.
Metal scraped against concrete as Moose dragged a chair across the kitchen floor.
Through the doorway, I caught him and Donkey having one of their silent conversations, all raised eyebrows and head tilts.
Twitch bounced into view, mouth already opening, then snapped it shut when Donkey elbowed him in the ribs.
They weren’t used to this. Hell, I wasn’t used to this. I was supposed to be the steady one, the guy who kept his head when everyone else lost theirs. Paladin, unshakeable in the face of fire. But Gillian had always been my match striking against rough paper—one touch and everything ignited.
The brush stilled in my hand. Fourth time wouldn’t make the boots any cleaner, wouldn’t make her decision any different. I set the boot down and reached for its partner, needing something to do with my hands that didn’t involve punching walls or calling her to say things I’d probably regret.
An engine rumbled outside, close enough to echo off the bay walls.
Not one of ours—wrong pitch, too smooth.
A car. My shoulders tensed as the motor cut off, followed by the distinctive click of heels on concrete.
Not the practical shoes the paramedics wore.
These had purpose, rhythm, like someone walking toward something instead of away from it.
The morning sun slanted through the open bay door, turning dust motes into floating sparks. A silhouette cut through the brightness, and my chest seized up like I’d taken a hit without my gear on.
Gillian.
Her hair caught fire in the sunlight, copper and gold spinning together as she stepped into the bay.
She wore one of those little sundresses that drove me crazy and a pair of oversized sunglasses that shielded her eyes.
Despite them, her gaze found mine across the distance, steady and sure in a way that made my pulse kick into overdrive.
The boot slipped from my hands, hitting the floor with a thud that seemed to echo forever.
She was the last person I expected to see here.
The last person I wanted to see before I’d gotten my head straight, before I’d figured out how to armor myself against whatever goodbye she’d come to deliver.
But there she stood, morning light at her back, looking at me like I was the only thing in the bay worth seeing.
Behind me, Twitch’s leg stopped bouncing. The kitchen had gone cemetery quiet, the kind of silence that meant everyone was listening while pretending not to exist. A wrench clattered somewhere in the back—probably Moose trying to appear busy and failing spectacularly.
Gillian took another step forward, heels clicking against concrete with the same certainty I’d heard in her voice four years ago when she’d told me she was leaving.
Only this time, she was walking toward me instead of away, and I had no idea what to do with that.
Had no idea what to do with the hope trying to claw its way up my throat despite everything I knew about endings.
“Can we talk?” Her voice carried across the bay, steady as bedrock, but her fingers flexed against her thigh in that nervous rhythm I remembered from law school applications and goodbyes.
The sinking started in my chest and spread outward, cold despite the morning heat.
Here it came—the gentle letdown, the carefully worded explanation about how last night was wonderful but she had a life in Chicago, a promotion waiting, responsibilities that didn’t include small-town firefighters who couldn’t let go of the past.
I pushed to my feet, joints protesting after too long in one position. My head jerked toward the far corner of the bay, where the ladder truck threw enough shadow to give us privacy from the vultures pretending to inventory supplies ten feet away.
Tipping up her sunglasses, she followed without hesitation, those heels tapping out a countdown to whatever end she’d come to deliver. The sound bounced off the concrete walls, each click another second closer to watching her walk away. Again.
I stopped near the truck’s massive tire, crossing my arms partly to look casual, mostly to keep my hands from reaching for her.
The apology sat ready on my tongue—sorry for pushing about the promotion, sorry for making things complicated, sorry for loving her when she needed me to let go.
Get it over with clean, like ripping off a bandage. Quick pull, sharp pain, then nothing.
“About yesterday—”
“I quit.”
The words crashed into mine, derailing whatever noble speech I’d been preparing.
She stood there in that sundress, sunlight catching the green in her eyes through the shadows, looking anything but defeated.
Her whole body hummed with energy, like she’d been plugged into a live wire.
Not the exhausted woman who’d cried in my arms three days ago.
Not the uncertain one who’d said, ‘I don’t know’ like an apology.
“You what?”
“I quit. Called my managing partner an hour ago.” She shifted her weight, those fingers still dancing against her leg, but her chin stayed high. “Told him thanks but no thanks on the promotion. Told him I wouldn’t be coming back at all.”
The bay suddenly felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked out through the open doors. Behind us, someone dropped something metallic—probably Twitch falling off his chair—but I couldn’t tear my gaze from her face, searching for signs this was some kind of heat-induced hallucination.
“Gillian—”
“I also told my parents to back off about the bar.” The words tumbled faster now, like she needed to get them all out before she lost her nerve.
“They showed up at Doc’s yesterday with an offer from some developer.
Dad was doing his whole intimidation routine, where he makes you feel like wanting anything other than a corner office makes you defective. ”
Yeah, Edgar Holliday had perfected the art of dismissal. He could make you feel small with just the angle of his eyebrows.
“Doc was actually considering it. Not because he wants to sell, but because he thinks he’s being selfish keeping me here.
” She took a step closer, and I caught that floral scent again, mixing with the diesel and metal of the firehouse.
“So I told them no. Told them I hated law, hated everything about the life they’d mapped out for me, and I was done living for their approval. ”
My arms had uncrossed without my permission, hands hanging useless at my sides while my brain tried to process what she was saying.
Not goodbye. Not another explanation for why we couldn’t work.
She’d blown up her entire life, and she stood here practically vibrating with something that looked dangerously like relief.
“But that’s not why I’m here.” She stepped closer, and the full force of her gaze hit me like water from a high-pressure hose. “I mean, it’s part of it, but—”
She took another step, close enough now that I could see the faint freckles across her nose, the ones that only showed up in summer. Her fingers had stopped their nervous dance, both hands steady at her sides like she’d made peace with whatever came next.
“I’m staying. I’m taking over the bar.” Her voice grew stronger with each word, like she was convincing herself as much as me. “And I’m... making the choice I should have made four years ago.”
The morning sounds of the firehouse faded to white noise.
Somewhere behind us, Moose was definitely listening, probably had Twitch in a headlock to keep him quiet.
The fans kept churning overhead, pushing hot air around, but I’d gone cold and hot at the same time, skin too tight for whatever was trying to burst out of my chest.
Her gaze didn’t waver, those green eyes holding mine with the same intensity she’d had the night she’d kissed me for the first time, all those years ago behind the saloon. “You.”
The word landed like a physical thing, solid and real and impossible.
You.
Not the job. Not Chicago. Not the life her parents had charted out in color-coded spreadsheets and ten-year plans.
Me.
The walls I’d spent four years building, brick by careful brick, started coming down all at once.
Not a controlled demolition but a complete collapse, leaving me standing in the rubble trying to remember how to breathe.
She’d chosen me. Chosen us. Chosen this life that had nothing to do with corner offices or billable hours or whatever the hell corporate mergers actually were.
Relief crashed through me so hard my knees actually buckled.
I caught myself against the ladder truck, the metal cool under my palm, grounding me in the moment.
This was real. She was real. Standing there in that sundress with her shoulders back and her chin up like she was ready to fight me if I tried to talk her out of it.
As if I would. As if I could. As if I wanted anything other than to close the distance between us and show her exactly how many times I’d dreamed of hearing those words.
“Gillian.” Her name came out rough, scraped raw by everything I was trying not to say yet. Not here, not with half the firehouse pretending not to watch through the gap between the trucks.
“I know it’s a lot.” She rushed on, mistaking my silence for hesitation.
“I know I don’t have any right to show up here after how I left things yesterday, after the promotion thing, but I couldn’t—I had to tell you first. Before I lost my nerve.
Before my dad called in favors to get me involuntarily committed for throwing away my career. ”
“Gillian.”
“And I get it if you need time to think about it. I mean, I just upended your entire morning, which probably wasn’t fair, but—”
“Gillian.”
She stopped, mouth still half-open around whatever explanation she’d been about to offer. The morning light caught the gold in her hair, turned her skin luminous, made her look like everything I’d ever wanted standing right there in my firehouse, choosing me.
Two steps. That’s all it took to erase the distance between us, to close four years of wondering and wanting and what-ifs. My hands found her face, fingers sliding into that copper hair, thumbs brushing against cheekbones that fit my palms like they’d been made for this exact purpose.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. Couldn’t be, not with everything that had been building since I’d seen her across the park on the Fourth of July. Not with the memory of yesterday’s fight still sharp between my ribs. Not with her standing here, choosing me over everything else.
She made a sound against my mouth—surprise melting into something else—and her hands came up to grip my shirt, pulling me closer like she needed an anchor.
The faint flavor of coffee lingered on her lips, probably her third cup already because some things never changed.
Behind us, the station hummed with its usual morning rhythm—the industrial fans churning, someone’s radio playing classic rock in the kitchen, a wrench clanging against concrete—but all of it was distant, muffled, like we’d stepped into our own pocket of time.
Her body curved into mine, soft where I was solid, warm despite the morning heat that had nothing on what was burning between us.
This wasn’t nostalgia. Wasn’t goodbye. Wasn’t any of the things I’d been afraid it might be.
This was Gillian choosing to stay, choosing us, choosing a life that had nothing to do with spreadsheets and conference calls and everything to do with late nights at the saloon and Sunday dinners at Doc’s and maybe, eventually, building something together that belonged to no one but us.
I pulled back enough to study her face, needing to see it in her eyes.
No uncertainty. No second thoughts. Just Gillian, cheeks flushed and lips swollen and looking at me like I’d hung the moon.
For the first time since she’d walked back into town, I wasn’t thinking about the past. Wasn’t cataloging all the ways this could go wrong or all the reasons she might leave again.
She was here, fingers still twisted in my shirt, breath coming fast, and she was staying.
The future stretched out in front of us, uncharted and thrilling and ours.
“So this is what you guys do instead of washing trucks?”
Moose’s voice boomed across the bay, and Gillian tensed against me, probably remembering we had an audience. But I didn’t let her pull away, just kept one arm around her waist while I turned enough to shoot him a glare that promised creative revenge during our next training drill.
He stood near the kitchen doorway, arms crossed and grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
Behind him, Twitch bounced on his toes, practically vibrating with the effort of not saying whatever was fighting to escape.
Donkey leaned against the wall, shaking his head but smiling that quiet smile that meant he was already planning how to give me grief about this for the next decade.
“Guessing this means she’s staying?” he called out, not even trying to hide his amusement.
I kept my eyes on Gillian’s face, on the way her lips curved up at the corners despite the blush spreading down her neck. “Damn right she is.”
The words came out sure, solid, a declaration and a promise and maybe a little bit of a warning to anyone who might try to convince her otherwise.
Her father, her old firm, that voice in her head that sometimes whispered she wasn’t enough—they could all go to hell.
She was mine now, or I was hers, or we were each other’s. The specifics didn’t matter.
Gillian laughed, the sound muffled against my shoulder as she turned her face into my shirt. The vibration traveled through my chest, lodged somewhere behind my ribs where I knew it would live forever. This exact moment, this exact sound, this exact feeling of everything finally sliding into place.