Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Ryder
Evening brings its own brand of restless energy. But as the sun sets, the lights flicker ominously.
Once. Twice. Then they cut out entirely with a soft electronic sigh that echoes through the cabin.
“Well, that was fun while it lasted,” Laney calls from the kitchen, and I hear the familiar scrape of a match against a striker, the soft whoosh of oil lamps coming to life. “Back to pioneer living.”
“At least we’re getting good at this,” I reply, setting candles around the living room. The warm glow transforms the space, making our handmade decorations look even more magical against the dancing shadows.
This feels less like an emergency now and more like choosing something slower, softer. Something that belongs just to us.
“So what’s the entertainment plan for tonight?”
“Well, we could always see what’s on TV,” I say, gesturing toward the dark screen with mock seriousness.
She settles onto the couch opposite the fire, arranging the kittens on a soft blanket on her lap. They’re tiny bundles of fur, all sleep and soft squeaks, kneading blindly against her fingers as she strokes them.
“Very funny,” she says, smiling down at them. “Seriously though, what did people do for fun before electricity?”
“Made music,” I say, the answer coming easily. The memory of winter evenings on An’Wa is real enough I can almost smell it. Community gatherings where voices would rise together in songs older than memory. “Told stories. Actually talked to each other instead of staring at screens.”
“Music, huh?” Interest lights her eyes. “The song you taught me earlier today was lovely. You’ve got a nice voice.”
The compliment settles warmly in my chest. “My mother always said music was the universal language. That it could bridge any gap between people.”
“Smart woman.” Laney tucks her feet under her, getting comfortable. “What kind of music did you grow up with?”
I think of those gatherings, the way voices would weave together in harmonies that needed no instruments. “Traditional An’Wa songs. Work songs, celebration songs, lullabies.” I pause, studying her face in the candlelight. “What about you?”
“My grandmother loved Christmas carols. She’d sing them year-round while she was cooking or gardening.” Her smile turns wistful, soft with memory. “I probably know every verse of ‘Silent Night’ and ‘White Christmas.’”
“Teach me,” I say, surprising myself with how much I want this—to share this piece of her world, to hear her voice lift in song.
“You want to learn Christmas carols?”
“Why not? Cultural exchange program.”
Her laugh is becoming one of my favorite sounds—unguarded and genuine. “All right, but I’m warning you—I’m not exactly a professional vocalist.”
“Neither am I.”
She starts with “Silent Night,” her voice soft and sweet in the candlelit room.
I listen intently, absorbing not just the melody but the way her face softens as she sings, the obvious affection she has for these familiar words.
There’s something vulnerable in the way she offers this—like she’s sharing more than just a song.
When she finishes, I urge her to start again and attempt to join in. My deeper voice weaves around hers, creating harmonies neither of us expected.
“That was beautiful,” she says softly, her gaze finding mine in the firelight. “Your voice adds something… grounding.”
“You make it sound like something precious instead of just a song everyone knows.”
We trade verses, then entire songs. She teaches me “Jingle Bells” and “White Christmas,” while I share a simple An’Wa melody about winter fires and the promise of spring’s return. Each exchange feels like a small gift, a way of sharing our worlds without having to explain them.
Somewhere during “Silver Bells,” we drift closer together on the couch. Not deliberately—or maybe entirely deliberately. Our arms touch first, then our knees. The physical contact feels natural, inevitable, like gravity pulling us into each other’s orbit.
The space between us seems to hum with awareness. Every point where we touch sends warmth spreading through my chest.
“This is nice,” she murmurs, and I feel the words as much as hear them, her breath warm against my shoulder.
“Yeah,” I agree, acutely aware of how her hair brushes my arm, how her scent—vanilla and woodsmoke—fills my lungs with every breath. “It is.”
From his corner, Peanut suddenly squawks: “Pretty! Pretty! More!”
We both laugh, the moment shifting from intense to something lighter but no less significant.
“Well, if Peanut approves,” Laney says, her eyes dancing with amusement.
“He’s got excellent taste,” I say, then grin as an idea strikes. “Though I do have one more song to share…”
“Oh?”
“It’s a variation of something you might know.” I clear my throat dramatically, watching her expression, then sing, “Orc the halls with boughs of holly—”
“What?” Her eyes go wide, then she bursts into delighted laughter that fills the cabin with warmth. “Did you just—?”
“Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!” I continue, letting my voice get more exuberant with each note, reveling in the way her laughter builds.
“Oh my God, you’re serious!” She’s laughing so hard she’s breathless, one hand pressed to her chest. “That’s terrible and wonderful and—” She joins in, her voice blending with mine in our ridiculous performance. “Orc the halls with boughs of holly, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!”
Even Peanut seems charmed by our performance, adding “la-la-la” to the chorus instead of his usual complaints.
“Only you would turn a Christmas carol into an orc anthem,” she gasps when we finally collapse into giggles.
“Cultural adaptation,” I say solemnly, then can’t maintain the serious expression. “Though I think we need to work on the rest of the verses.”
“Oh, we’re definitely workshopping this,” she declares, still grinning. “This could be your contribution to Christmas carol history.”
“Famous last words.”
The laughter fades to comfortable quiet, but something has shifted.
The air feels charged now, expectant. Laney’s smile softens as she gazes at me, and I find myself studying her profile in the firelight—the way the glow catches in her hair, the small scar on her chin, and the unconscious grace in her movements.
Beautiful doesn’t begin to cover it.
“Tell me about your family,” she says, her voice quieter now, more intimate. “About your mother, who taught you that music bridges gaps.”
I let myself lean into the memories, sharing this piece of myself.
“She’s amazing. Strong, patient, endlessly optimistic despite everything we’ve been through.
” The words come easier than expected, maybe because Laney listens with her full attention.
“I was lucky—my whole family came through the Rift together. That’s incredibly rare. Most people lost everyone.”
Her hand finds mine between us on the couch, a gentle pressure that says I understand. “That must make it hard when you have to be away fighting fires. Being separated from everyone you care about.”
“It does.” I turn my hand over, threading our fingers together. The contact sends warmth radiating up my arm. “But some things are worth the distance.”
She doesn’t ask what I mean at first. The silence stretches, comfortable but weighted with unspoken questions. Finally, she speaks, her voice careful. “What does that distance look like? When the roads clear, I mean?”
I appreciate that she’s asking. That she’s not avoiding the hard questions. “Honestly? I don’t know yet. I have to go back to the Zone—that’s not negotiable. Others can’t just live outside without authorization, and even then, it would be time-limited.”
“Oh.” Her voice is small. “I hadn’t… I didn’t think about that.”
“There are programs,” I continue, wanting to give her hope even as I’m realistic.
“The Essential Services Program allows some firefighters to work outside the Zone. But it requires applications, approvals, and all kinds of red tape. And even then, I couldn’t fully relocate.
I’d still have to maintain a residence in the Zone, commute back regularly. ”
I continue, needing to be fully honest. “And there’s something else. My chief mentioned a promotion before I left. Lieutenant position. Better pay, more responsibility.”
“That’s amazing!” Her face lights up despite everything. “You must be excited.”
“I don’t know yet exactly what it will mean. More time in the Zone, more on-call hours. Less flexibility for…” I gesture vaguely, not wanting to say for relationships outside the Zone when we’re still figuring out what this is. “For personal life.”
“Oh.” Understanding dawns in her eyes. “So the promotion would make things harder for us.”
“Potentially. Or it could mean better financial stability to actually build something real instead of just surviving paycheck to paycheck.” I squeeze her hand. “The board wants an answer by mid-January. I haven’t decided yet. Part of me wonders what I’d even be building it for, if…”
I trail off, but she understands what I’m not saying.
“That sounds complicated.”
“It is.” I bring our joined hands up, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
“But I’m not telling you this to scare you.
I’m telling you because whatever this is between us—” I gesture between us with our clasped hands, “—I want you to know I’m thinking about how to make it work.
Not just for now, while we’re snowed in, but after. ”
Her eyes search mine, vulnerable and hopeful. “So… you’ve already been thinking about us like that,” she says softly, not quite a question.
“Since day two,” I admit. “Maybe day one, if I’m being honest.”
“Me too,” she whispers. “But I didn’t want to be presumptuous. I didn’t want to assume… I mean, you have a life in the Zone. Family. Friends. Your career. I can’t expect you to—”
“Hey.” I cup her cheek, stopping the spiral. “Whatever we figure out, we figure out together. No expectations. No assumptions. Just… possibilities.”