Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Boone
The garage still smells like smoke when the sun drops behind Devil’s Peak.
The tape flutters in the evening wind, bright and ugly against the quiet.
Saxon said the official report would take time.
I said fine. I already know what I need to know.
So far it looks like a prank pulled by some teenagers, but that won’t make Ember feel any better.
I cross the yard with a limp I pretend isn’t there, boots crunching over gravel. Ember’s studio windows glow warm—lamps on, paint drying, the low hum of music I don’t recognize but somehow already know belongs to her. Color lives in there. Breath. Noise.
I hesitate at the door.
Fear still knows my name. It wraps around my chest, squeezes just enough to remind me how easy it would be to retreat—to go back to the quiet, to engines and shadows, to the version of me that keeps his head down and his heart boarded up.
But fire doesn’t just burn.
It exposes.
I knock once and don’t wait for an answer.
Ember looks up from a table splattered in blues and rusted oranges, paint on her fingers, hair loose like she forgot to tame it after the chaos of the day. She freezes when she sees me, then her shoulders drop.
“Hey,” she says softly.
“Hey, Firefly.”
She sets the brush down carefully, like the moment deserves it. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You?”
She studies my face, eyes sharp in that way she has—seeing past the words. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
I shut the door behind me. The click sounds louder than it should.
“I need to talk,” I say.
Her smile fades, replaced by attention. Real attention. She nods and gestures to the couch—the terrible one we laughed about yesterday, stiff and awkward and somehow already ours.
We sit too close. Or maybe not close enough.
Silence stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable. She waits me out. Always does.
“I’ve spent a long time thinking fire was the enemy,” I say finally. “Like it took everything from me. My job. My body. The part of me that knew how to move without thinking.”
She doesn’t interrupt. Just turns her body toward mine, knee brushing mine, warmth bleeding through denim.
“But today,” I continue, “I remembered something.”
“What?” she asks.
“That fire tells the truth.”
Her brow furrows. “That sounds ominous.”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “It’s not. Or maybe it is. Depends on the day.”
I look at my hands. Scarred. Strong. Still mine. “Fire shows what’s real. What burns away wasn’t meant to last.”
Her fingers slide into mine before I realize I reached for her. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pull back.
“So what burned away?” she asks quietly.
“The lie,” I say. “That I was done living.”
She inhales, sharp. I feel it like a pulse.
“I’ve been afraid,” I admit. The words scrape on the way out. “Not of getting hurt again. Of wanting again. Of needing something enough that losing it would wreck me.”
Her thumb strokes the back of my hand, slow and steady. “And me?”
“Yes,” I say without flinching. “You.”
The studio hums around us. Outside, the mountain settles, night creeping in like a held breath.
“I don’t want to rescue you,” she says after a beat. “And I don’t want to be rescued.”
Good. God, that’s good.
“I don’t need fixing,” I tell her. “I need—”
“Someone to stand beside you,” she finishes.
I look at her then. Really look. The paint on her cheek. The quiet strength under the sparkle. The way she never once tried to drag me into the light—just turned it on and trusted me to find my way.
“Yes,” I say. “That.”
She lifts our joined hands, presses them to her chest. I feel her heartbeat. Fast. Alive.
“I choose you,” she says simply. “As you are. Scars and shadows and all.”
The words land like a promise and a challenge.
I lean in, close enough that my breath ghosts her lips. She doesn’t move away. Her eyes darken, mouth parting just slightly.
“Firefly,” I murmur. “If I start…”
“I know,” she whispers. “That’s why I’m still here.”
I kiss her then.
Not a claiming. Not a frenzy. A truth.
Her lips are warm, soft, sure. She kisses back like she means it, hands sliding up my chest, fingers curling into my shirt. The kiss deepens, heat building, and I feel it—the pull, the ache, the need to take and hold and never let go.
I break it before it turns into something else.
She groans softly, forehead dropping to my shoulder. “You have infuriating control.”
I chuckle, low. “Don’t mistake restraint for lack of desire.”
Her laugh is breathless. “Noted.”
I brush my thumb along her jaw, tilt her face up. “I’m not running,” I tell her. “But I’m not rushing either. I want this right.”
She nods, eyes bright. “Me too.”
We sit there, tangled and steady, until the night wraps around the studio and the fear finally loosens its grip.
Fire didn’t destroy me.
It revealed her.
And I’m done hiding from the truth.