Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Ember
The firehouse smells like home cooked casseroles and warm coffee and pastries.
I pace the edge of the bay while the kids line up in front of the curtain we rigged from old turnout tarps, their sneakers squeaking, their fingers smudged with paint they absolutely did not wipe on their pants like I asked.
The crowd hums—Devil’s Peak turning out in flannel and dress uniforms, laughter bouncing off steel and concrete, the fundraiser banner strung crooked but proud.
Boone stands a few feet away, arms folded, weight favoring his good leg. He pretends to be stoic. Fails. His jaw works like he’s chewing something sharp. When he catches me watching, his mouth tilts.
“Firefly,” he says under his breath. “You pacing holes in the floor?”
“Maybe,” I say. “If I do, you’ll fix them, right?”
“Always fixing something,” he murmurs. “You included.”
I arch a brow. “I’m not broken.”
His eyes go dark and warm. “Never said you were.”
Captain Saxon claps his hands for attention. The noise cuts through the room, and the kids snap to it, eyes bright. Boone’s shoulders square. He looks like he’s bracing for impact.
“This is your moment,” I whisper.
He snorts. “I hate moments.”
“Liar,” I say. “You just don’t like being seen.”
He doesn’t answer. He watches the kids instead—watches the way they bounce, the way one of them grips the rope like it might run away. I slide my hand into his. He lets me. His thumb presses into my knuckle, grounding.
Saxon gives the nod.
The tarps drop.
Color explodes.
Gasps ripple across the bay. Someone whistles.
Someone else laughs and swipes at their eyes like it’s dust. The mural stretches across the wall—firefighters in motion, faces fierce and tender, flames curling around them not as monsters but as raw material, reshaped into light.
Yellows bleed into golds. Reds soften into dawn.
A ladder arcs like a spine toward the sky.
The kids beam, chests puffed.
Boone goes still.
I watch the moment land on him. The way his breath catches. The way his fingers tighten around mine. He leans forward half an inch, as if pulled by a magnet he didn’t know existed.
“Boone,” I whisper. “Look closer.”
He scans the mural, eyes tracing lines, shadows, the tiny details the kids insisted on adding. Then he sees it—his name tucked into the corner in red, almost shy, almost secret.
LAWSON.
He swallows hard.
“They—” His voice breaks. He clears it, tries again. “They spelled it right.”
I smile into his shoulder. “They practiced.”
The kids chatter, pointing out their favorite parts. One of them—freckled, missing a tooth—pipes up. “That’s you,” he says, jabbing a finger at a figure hauling a hose, flames bending into a sunrise. “You make fire behave.”
Boone drops to a crouch without thinking, meeting the kid at eye level. “Fire never behaves,” he says gently. “You just learn how to listen.”
The kid nods like this is the most important truth he’s ever heard.
Applause breaks out. Loud. Earnest. The kind that presses on your chest.
Boone stands. He turns to me and pulls me in, no hesitation, no audience awareness. His arm wraps around my shoulders, solid and sure, my cheek pressed to his chest. He kisses the top of my head, slow and reverent.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. “For this. For them.”
“For you,” I say. “You’re already part of something bigger.”
“I see that now.” He drops a tender kiss on the top of my head.
“Captain confirmed that it was a group of teenagers that lit the fire in your garage. They also tried to light up the principal’s garage—joke’s on them because Principal Mason has security cameras.
Captain already visited their parents and negotiated some community service time off the record—cleanup on the highways and helping out around the firehouse—you don’t have to worry about anything happening again. ”
“Thank you,” I murmur against him. “I’m glad you were there.”
“Me too, Firefly.” He pulls me closer, kissing my forehead and causing warmth to bloom in my chest. “I’ll always be there.”
The rest of the night moves like a tide—donations clink into jars, kids show off sketches, Savannah presses cookies into hands, Axel ribs Boone about smiling like he’s swallowed a star. Boone takes it all in, present, steady. When someone claps him on the back, he doesn’t flinch.
Later, when the crowd thins and the lights dim to a warm glow, he pulls me aside near the mural.
“I’m going back,” he says.
“To the station?” I ask.
“Fully,” he says. “Not the way I was. Not pretending I can outrun what happened. As the man I am now.”
Scarred. Capable. Unhidden.
My chest tightens. “You sure?”
His gaze holds mine. “I’m done hiding.”
The band starts up outside, a low thrum of strings and laughter. Boone’s hand settles at my waist. Possessive. Gentle. He leans in, voice low.
“You knew,” he says. “You built this so I’d have a place to stand.”
I shrug. “Artists are sneaky.”
He laughs, rough and real, and then he kisses me—public, unapologetic, just enough heat to make my knees go soft. When he pulls back, his eyes burn.
“Dance with me,” he says.
“Right here?” I ask.
“Right here.”
We stand and begin a slow sway in front of the mural, bodies close, the music wrapping around us. His hand slides up my back, fingers splayed like he’s memorizing the curve of my spine. I breathe him in—soap and smoke and something like home.
“You’re dangerous,” I tell him.
He smirks. “You love it.”
“Maybe,” I say. “You’re also mine.”
His grip tightens. “That’s not a problem.”
We move until the music fades and the kids yawn and Saxon flicks the lights. Boone doesn’t let go until we step into the cold, stars sharp above Devil’s Peak. He drapes his jacket over my shoulders without asking.
“Firefly,” he says, voice soft now. “I don’t know what comes next.”
I look at him—at the man who learned to listen to fire, who chose to step into light without burning. “We’ll make it,” I say. “Together.”
He nods. Then he kisses me again, slow and certain, beneath a mural that proves what fire can become when you refuse to be afraid of it.
And for the first time, I believe it.
An hour later, Boone carries me into my studio, depositing me on the hardest sofa in existence.
I feel his lips press softly against mine, warmth flooding me as his fingers twist gently through my hair.
A low moan tumbles from my throat, vibrating against his mouth.
When he pulls back just enough for me to hear, he breathes, “Touch yourself for me,” and I feel a jolt of surprise— my hands trembling at my sides. “I want to see you touch yourself.”
My voice catches. “I-I…okay.”
My heart pounds under his hot gaze.
Watching him, so hungry and patient, shifts something inside of me. He’s seeing me—truly seeing me—for the first time, and I’m suspended between fear and desire. When he lifts my T-shirt in slow, deliberate movements, I realize I’m as raw and untouched as he believes.
Heat floods my cheeks as his hand guides mine down the smooth slope of my thigh. Our fingertips brush the elastic of my panties under my skirt, and my breath hitches; my heart pounds, loud and eager beneath his touch.
He meets my eyes with a soft smile that loosens something inside me, and I let go of his hand. My fingers slide against my waistband, trembling. He urges me with his gaze: “Slide your fingers around the top. Show me where it feels good, Firefly.”
I do as he says—slow, cautious strokes that build slowly.
A shiver runs through me. “That’s it, nice and slow,” he murmurs.
“Do you feel that?” I close my eyes and swallow against a sigh.
“Keep going,” he encourages, voice thick with something deep and fierce.
My body responds, inching toward a trembling edge.
My nipples tighten against the fabric of my bra, and a flush spreads from my chest to my toes.
I’ve never felt anything like this—his attention, this warmth, this purpose in his voice.
Then he slips a hand inside his panties.
My pulse races as he watches, breathing ragged.
I imagine how it will feel when he’s finally inside me, and the words escape me in a hushed promise: “I’m thinking about how you’ll feel when you’re inside me.
” My fingers quicken, slick now, and his eyes darken with need.
He growls softly, unable to hold back, and suddenly he’s covering me—crashing onto my lips in a fierce kiss.
My fingers clutch at his hair as his mouth devours mine, igniting fiery sparks all along my spine.
He trails kisses down my neck, over the gentle dip of my collarbone, hands roaming until they cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over the peaks through pink fabric.
The trembling in my body grows; I arch into him, craving more.
He moves lower, lips and tongue mapping every tender spot: the inner crook of my elbow, the curve of my wrist, the soft plane above my pubic bone.
My hips lift in yearning as he parts the wet edges of me with a slow, teasing stroke.
My breath hisses when his tongue slides up, swirling around my slit, nipping gently.
I press back against him, thighs quivering, heart racing.
He pulls up to kiss my breasts again before sucking one nipple into his mouth, moaning softly.
Then two long fingers slide inside me—careful, measured—to ensure I’m ready.
I arch and gasp at the delicious stretch, every nerve singing.
When he adds a second finger, my body relaxes into a slow, molten rhythm, and I cry out as pleasure blossoms deep within me.
He withdraws his fingers and brings them to his mouth, savoring my taste, and my mouth goes dry as I watch him. He unzips his pants, and I can’t take my eyes off him—his muscular thighs, the promise of all that he is.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” he asks softly.
I swallow, meeting his gaze. “There hasn’t been anyone before you, Boone,” I whisper, wrapping my thighs around his waist as he slides his pants off. My pulse thrums with need and excitement. “You’re the only person I’ve ever even kissed,” I admit, wanting him to know how precious this moment is.
“God, baby, you don’t know what it does to me to hear you say those words.
” He growls with pleasure as he lines himself up with my entrance, dragging the head of him along my slit so that my clit brushes over the tip.
A jolt of pleasure shoots through me. “You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs, stroking against me.
I dig my nails into his shoulder as I push back, chasing the friction.
When he thrusts gently inside, I hiss at the delicious burn of his heavy intrusion. He pauses at the perfect depth, giving me a moment to acclimate, thumb stroking my cheek as if to say it’s okay. “Shhh… I’m sorry,” he whispers against my lips, hand threading through my hair.
I cling to him, breath trembling. “I-I’m okay–I’m perfect. You feel perfect,” I hum as tears of pleasure press at my eyelashes.
“It’ll feel good soon,” he assures me, kissing me slowly before my body relaxes around him.
His rhythm shifts from caution to a slow, seductive drive.
I wrap one leg higher around his waist, pulling him deeper.
My hands roam over his strong back as he begins to move, each thrust sending waves of exquisite sensation rolling through me.
“Please… more,” I gasp, arching against him. “I want all of you, Boone.”
He groans my name, and his hips start to pound into me with more urgency.
My body responds naturally, riding with him, matching his thrusts until every nerve ending burns with need.
I cry out as I come apart around him, my world narrowed to the slick, grounding reality of us joined together.
He stills for a moment, gasping in my ear, then bottoms out in a final, breathtaking surge.
My fingers tangle in his hair, and together we ride out the trembling release.
When he pulls free, I feel hollow and full all at once.
He gathers me in his arms, tucking me under him, and I cling to his back as he rolls us so we lie side by side.
My body hums with aftershocks, and I press my face into his broad chest, breathing in the scent of him—sweat, musk, something uniquely his.
I feel his tremors, and then his arms tighten protectively around me.
My hands roam over his knuckles and forearms, tracing the raised scars there.
Guilt flickers through me at the sight of those battle wounds.
He tenses beneath my fingers, memories flickering in his eyes as I push my fingertips through the soft smattering of hair that covers his chest..
“Are you okay?” he asks softly.
“Better now,” I whisper. I lift my head to look at him, eyes wide and tender. “Except for this damn couch.”
The tension drains from his face and he chuckles.
I press a gentle kiss to his forehead.
“Tell me about these scars,” I whisper, fingertips tracing the angry slashes on his skin.
He gives me a half-smile and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “From my time in the desert,” he murmurs.
He strokes my bare back with his fingertips, and I feel the tightness in his chest ease. He strokes my hair, and I sigh, content to simply be near him, safe in this warmth he’s offering. “I always thought I was better off alone, until you moved into my life.”
I trace a finger along his eyebrow. “You should get used to me, I’m never leaving.”
“I won’t let you,” he laughs. “Even if you are the neighbor from Hell.”
“Me?” I gasp.
“Yes you, bringing all that sunshine and happiness.”
“You needed my sunshine.”
“Damn right I did, Firefly.”
I press closer and rest my head on his chest and he brushes his fingers through my hair and plants a soft kiss on my forehead.
I yawn, eyelids heavy with sleep and satisfaction.
His arms wrap around me tighter. “Now go to sleep and dream about how sweet it will be when I wake you up with kisses all over your body tomorrow morning.”
“I can’t wait.” I smile, feeling safe in his arms and cherished for the first time in my life.