Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Ember
The siren cuts through my morning like a blade.
I’m halfway through setting up for the kids’ class—cups of rinse water lined up, brushes soaking, a stack of heavy paper weighted against the draft—when the sound slams into my chest. Not the distant wail you learn to tune out. This one is close. Urgent. Wrong.
I step outside just as smoke curls up from behind the old garage at the edge of the property.
“No,” I breathe.
The garage isn’t part of my studio, not exactly, but it’s close enough that my heart starts hammering. Too close. The smell hits me next—sharp, chemical, not wood or dust. Not accidental.
I don’t think. I move.
Boone is already there.
He comes out of his workshop like something unleashed, jacket half on, radio clipped to his belt, eyes locked on the plume of smoke with a focus that steals the air from my lungs.
This isn’t the quiet man who drinks his coffee slow and pretends not to watch me through the window.
This is the man carved by fire and purpose.
“Ember,” he snaps, voice rough. “Back up. Now.”
“I just—”
“Firefly,” he says, softer but no less commanding. “Please.”
I freeze. He doesn’t look at me again. He doesn’t have to. I step back because his tone leaves no room for argument—and because something in his posture tells me this is the moment everything he’s been holding back comes roaring to the surface.
The garage door is scorched black around the edges. Smoke seeps from the seams like it’s breathing.
Boone crouches, fingers brushing the metal without hesitation. He swears under his breath, then points the fire extinguisher in one hand and cracks the door open just enough to blast the interior.
White powder explodes inside.
The fire dies fast. Too fast.
“That’s not right,” he mutters.
He pushes the door wider, scanning, eyes sharp, movements economical despite the hitch in his step. He doesn’t rush. He assesses. I’ve seen him work on engines, methodical and precise, but this is different. This is instinct. Muscle memory. A language he never forgot.
I edge closer despite myself.
“Ember,” he warns without turning.
“I’m staying back,” I promise, heart in my throat. “I just—tell me it didn’t spread.”
“It didn’t,” he says. “Because this wasn’t meant to.”
That lands cold.
He straightens slowly and turns to me, and for the first time I see something fierce and alive in his eyes. Not fear. Not anger. Purpose.
“This was set,” he says. “Badly.”
My stomach drops. “Set? Why would—”
“I don’t know yet,” he cuts in. Then his gaze flicks past me, sweeping the studio, the windows, the back door. Protective. Possessive. “But it wasn’t random.”
A fire truck pulls up at the road. Then another. The yard fills with movement and noise and familiar faces—Saxon barking orders, Ash scanning the perimeter, Axel hopping out with a medical bag he probably won’t need but brings anyway.
Savannah catches my eye and hurries over, hand warm on my arm. “You okay?”
I nod, even though my hands are shaking. “Boone—”
“I’ve got him,” she says, squeezing. “He’s in his element right now.”
She’s right.
Boone barely registers anyone else as he walks Saxon through what he sees, pointing out burn patterns, residue, the way the scorch marks climb but don’t consume.
“Accelerant,” he says flatly. “Small amount. Placed low. Whoever did this wanted smoke, not destruction.”
Saxon’s jaw tightens. “Message?”
Boone nods once. “Maybe.”
I hug myself, suddenly cold despite the morning sun. This space—my space—feels violated. The place where I bring kids to make messy, beautiful things nearly went up in flames because someone decided it should.
Boone turns then, finally really looks at me, and the shift is immediate. The intensity softens, funnels into something sharp and personal.
“You hurt?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “Just scared.”
He closes the distance without thinking, one hand landing on my shoulder, thumb pressing in like he’s grounding both of us. The contact sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear.
“I won’t let anything happen to this place,” he says quietly. “Or you.”
The words are simple. The promise is not.
Saxon clears his throat. “We’ll run it official, Boone.”
“I know,” Boone says. “I want to walk it again when you’re done.”
Saxon studies him for a second, then nods. “Take the lead.”
And just like that, something settles into place. The men move around him with trust that’s been earned the hard way. Boone doesn’t hesitate. He directs, observes, questions. He’s alive in a way I haven’t seen yet, like the fire didn’t take this part of him—it only buried it.
I watch from the edge, heart pounding, pride swelling unexpectedly.
An hour later, the trucks are gone. The garage is taped off. The air smells clean again.
Boone walks back to me slowly, exhaustion edging his movements but something steady anchoring him now.
“You okay?” he asks again.
“I think so,” I say. “You?”
He exhales. “Yeah.”
The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid.
“You were incredible,” I blurt.
He snorts. “You make it sound like a trick.”
“I mean it,” I say. “You stepped right back into it. Like you never left.”
His gaze drops, then lifts to mine. “I did leave.”
“But you came back,” I say softly.
His mouth curves, just barely. “For you.”
My breath catches.
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell smoke on his clothes, feel the heat he hasn’t burned off yet.
“Firefly,” he murmurs. “This scared you.”
“Yes.”
“I hate that.”
“I know.”
He lifts a hand, hesitates, then cups my jaw, thumb warm against my skin. It’s not a kiss. It’s not even a move toward one. It’s a moment—charged, reverent, dangerous.
“I’m here,” he says. “And I’m not disappearing.”
I swallow, nodding. “Good.”
He leans in, forehead resting against mine, breath warm and steady. For a second, the world narrows to this—smoke and sunlight, fear and relief, the quiet hum of something being reclaimed.
Then he pulls back, just enough to smile at me with that crooked, infuriating charm.
“Looks like your studio’s got a guard dog now.”
I laugh shakily. “You don’t bark.”
“No,” he says. “I bite.”
The spark between us flares—not destructive, not consuming. Alive.