Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Boone
I don’t go back into my workshop.
That’s how I know I’m in trouble.
I walk past it, past the familiar clang and oil and quiet that usually soothes me, and jump in my truck, turning the ignition and pulling out of the driveway in the direction of the mountain.
I keep driving until Devil’s Peak thins into trees and snow and nothing.
The truck hums beneath my hands, steady and real, but my head is still in Ember’s studio—paint on her skin, her laugh catching in her throat, the way she looked at me like I wasn’t something broken she had to tiptoe around.
That look scares the hell out of me.
I pull off near the ridge road and kill the engine. The silence hits hard. Too loud. I rest my forehead against the steering wheel and breathe until my pulse stops trying to climb out of my chest.
Firefly.
I shouldn’t have let it go that far. Shouldn’t have taken the brush. Shouldn’t have touched her at all. I know better than this. I know what happens when I let myself want something—when I let myself imagine a future instead of just surviving the next day.
I see her with the kids before I mean to. Barefoot on paint-splattered floors, laughing when someone knocks over a water jar, kneeling to show a kid how to blend blue into gold. She belongs in that light. She belongs in a room full of color and noise and life.
I don’t.
That’s the part that claws at me.
Because the truth is, she fits too easily into the empty spaces I pretend aren’t there anymore. She slides right into them like she was made for it. Like she’s the piece I stopped letting myself look for after the explosion, after the doctors told me what wouldn’t ever work the same again.
Power.
That’s what it is. She has power over me just by existing, by being bright and kind and unafraid to see me. And I don’t trust anything that can shake me this fast.
I start the truck again and head home, jaw tight the whole way.
The house is dark when I get there. Too quiet. I shrug off my jacket and toss it on the chair, pacing once before I force myself to stop. I grab a beer I don’t really want and lean against the counter, staring at nothing.
I tell myself this is smart. Necessary. A retreat before I do something I can’t undo.
Tomorrow, I’ll keep my distance. I’ll be polite. Professional. Grumpy, even. I’ll let the charge burn itself out.
That’s the plan.
It lasts exactly twelve hours.
The next morning, the studio door is already open when I step outside, steam curling from my coffee. Music drifts out—something upbeat and impossible to ignore. Ember’s voice floats with it, singing off-key and proud.
I stop without meaning to.
She’s inside with a half-dozen kids, all wearing oversized smocks and grins, hands streaked with paint. She’s crouched in the middle of them, demonstrating a brushstroke with exaggerated seriousness.
“No stabbing the paper,” she says. “We’re painting mountains, not enemies.”
A kid snorts. Another giggles. Ember looks up then and spots me through the window.
Her smile falters.
Just a little.
Enough that I feel it like a hook under my ribs.
She straightens, brushes paint off her hands, and steps outside. “Morning.”
“Morning,” I reply.
There’s a pause. Not awkward—careful.
“You good?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah. Just… had an early start.”
Her eyes flick to my face like she’s reading something there. “You disappeared last night.”
I shrug. “Needed air.”
“Right,” she says. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t tease. That somehow makes it worse.
“I’ll—uh—I’ll let you get back to it,” I say.
She hesitates, then smiles anyway. “Okay. See you later, Grump.”
Firefly. Bright even when she shouldn’t be.
I walk away before I do something stupid, like pull her into my arms or tell her exactly how much space she’s taking up in my head.
By afternoon, the firehouse is buzzing. Saxon’s voice echoes down the bay, Ash is laughing too loud, Axel is arguing about wiring diagrams. It should ground me.
It doesn’t.
Savannah leans against the counter, watching me over her coffee. “You look like hell.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” I say.
She smirks. “Ember was asking about you.”
I stiffen. “Was she.”
“Relax,” Axel says, clapping me on the shoulder. “She just wanted to know if you were avoiding her on purpose or if you’re always like this.”
“Always like what?” I snap.
Ash snorts. “Terrified of good things.”
I glare at him. He just lifts his mug in salute.
Saxon watches me quietly. “Boone.”
“Yeah.”
“If you need time, take it,” he says. “Just don’t torch something that might matter because you’re scared.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
That evening, I don’t go to Ember’s studio.
I work late. Fix an engine that doesn’t need fixing. Reorganize tools that were already in order. Anything to keep my hands busy and my head quiet.
It doesn’t work.
Around nine, there’s a knock on my door.
I freeze.
Another knock, lighter this time. “Boone? It’s me.”
I open it before I think better of it.
She stands there with a plate wrapped in foil, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair pulled back in a messy knot that does dangerous things to my focus.
“I made extra,” she says. “Pasta bolognese. You mentioned liking Italian.”
I stare at the plate like it might explode.
“You didn’t have to,” I say.
“I know,” she replies. “I wanted to.”
I step aside, letting her in. The air shifts immediately, charged and quiet.
She sets the plate down and turns to face me. “Did I do something?”
“No.”
“You pulled back.”
I don’t deny it.
She crosses her arms. “I don’t chase people who don’t want to be caught.”
A sharp smile tugs at my mouth. “Good.”
Her eyes flash. “Good?”
“Because if you did,” I say carefully, “I wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Silence stretches between us.
She steps closer. “You’re afraid.”
I laugh once, humorless. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
“I know enough,” she says. “You don’t like how much you feel.”
She’s not wrong. That’s the problem.
I take a breath. “Firefly… I don’t do half-measures. If I let myself step into something, I’m all in. And I don’t trust that right now.”
“Why?” she asks softly.
Because I’ve lost before. Because I’m not the man I used to be. Because I want you enough it scares me.
I give her the version that won’t gut us both. “Because I’m not good at… easy.”
She studies me for a long moment. Then she nods. “Okay.”
Okay.
No argument. No guilt. Just understanding.
She picks up her coat. “Bolognese’s for later. When you’re ready to stop hiding.”
She pauses at the door. “For what it’s worth, Boone… I don’t see broken when I look at you.”
The door closes behind her.
I stand there a long time, the house suddenly too quiet, her words settling into me like embers.
Pulling back doesn’t stop the fire.
It just makes it burn slower.
And deeper.