Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Lucy
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Devil’s Peak in my short time here, it’s that everything feels a little louder at night.
The snow crunches sharper under boots. The wind whistles through the pines like a warning.
And every emotion—every thought—every stupid, useless craving for a certain firefighter—feels amplified.
I should be home grading book club entries.
Or alphabetizing the donation cart. Or doing literally anything that doesn’t involve walking down Ash Calder’s driveway with a plate of cookies like a woman who has lost all self-preservation instincts.
But here I am. Because Holly asked me to stop by. Because Ash didn’t say no fast enough. Because something about the way he looked at me earlier—like he was fighting something he might lose—has been looping in my head like a broken holiday song.
I climb the steps and knock. There’s shuffling inside, a thud, and then Ash opens the door with a tired scowl that does terrible things to my insides. His voice is rough. “What are you doing here?”
Not exactly welcoming.
I lift the plate. “Holly wanted me to bring the cookies we made at the library today.”
He sighs, rubbing his forehead. He looks worn—edges dulled, shoulders heavy, eyes shadowed in a way I haven’t seen on him before. “She’s in the living room,” he mutters. “Come in.”
I step inside. Warmth hits me instantly—wood stove crackling, soft pine-scented candles, Holly humming to herself from the couch as she colors. Her little reindeer slippers kick happily in the air. “Lucy!” she squeals. “You came!”
“Of course I did.” I smile, setting the cookies on the coffee table. Ash drops onto the armchair with the kind of exhausted groan that suggests the world is sitting on his back tonight.
Holly doesn’t notice. “Look, Lucy! I made Uncle Ash a Christmas picture for the fridge!”
I kneel beside her. The drawing is scribbled but heartfelt—three stick people holding hands beneath a huge, sparkly Christmas tree. One is Holly. One looks suspiciously like me. And the tall one with messy brown hair?
Ash.
My chest does something stupid and fluttery. Ash sees the picture and stiffens. He swallows once. Hard.
“Pretty good, kid,” he says, voice tight.
“You didn’t hang it up yet,” Holly points out. “You said you would.”
“I will.”
“You said that yesterday,” she adds.
His jaw tics.
She turns to me, whispering loudly, “He never decorates. He doesn’t even have lights.”
I glance around the room—no garland, no stockings, no tree. Not even a strand of cheap tinsel. And for the first time, Ash looks… embarrassed.
I soften. “Maybe he just needs a little help.”
Holly gasps. “Will you help us decorate, Lucy?”
Ash cuts in quickly. “Hey, no—”
“Yes!” Holly bounces. “Please, please, please!”
“Holly—” he tries again.
But the kid is already climbing off the couch and running toward the closet. “Ash,” I say quietly, stepping closer, “it wouldn’t hurt to let her have a little fun.”
He presses a hand to his jaw, rubbing slow circles like he’s fighting a headache. Or a memory. Or both. “Lucy…”
“Just a few decorations,” I whisper. “For her.”
He looks at me then—really looks. And suddenly the exhaustion shifts into something else. Something heavier. Something that scares me.
“She doesn’t understand,” he murmurs.
“Understand what?”
“That this isn’t…” He trails off, shaking his head. “This isn’t permanent.”
The words hit me like ice. Not permanent.
“You’re her guardian,” I say softly.
“Temporary guardian,” he corrects, harsh. “Temporary.”
Before I can respond, Holly drags out a cardboard box of decorations from the closet—dusty, half-crushed, clearly untouched for years. “Ash?” I whisper, nodding at the box. “Those were your sister’s?”
His entire body goes rigid. Then—quietly, almost reluctantly—he nods.
Holly pries open the box, pulling out ornaments like small treasures. Ash watches with a hollow expression.
“You okay?” I murmur.
“No.” It’s not loud. It’s not obvious. But it’s honest.
I move closer. “Talk to me.”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
Holly pulls out a small felt stocking with her name stitched in crooked letters. “Mom made this!” she says proudly.
Ash swallows again, throat working.
Lucy, don’t stare. Don’t get attached. Don’t do the thing you always do—feel too much. But God, I’m already too close. I sit on the arm of his chair and lower my voice. “What happened when your sister left?”
His eyes flick up to mine—dark, guarded, storming.
Then he exhales slowly, shoulders sinking. “She called me the night before she shipped out,” he says quietly. “Told me she didn’t have anyone else. Told me she was scared Holly wouldn’t understand.”
His voice gets low, raw. “Told me she was trusting me with her kid. Her whole world.”
My chest aches. I whisper, “That’s a big thing to carry.”
“Yeah,” he says, defeated. “It is.”
He watches Holly lift ornaments with that focused, innocent joy only kids have.
“She cried on the phone,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “Told me she didn’t want Holly to see her leave. Said she couldn’t do it. So she put her on a plane to me the next morning.”
Oh, God. “Ash…”
“She said it was better that way,” he mutters. “Cleaner. Easier.”
“For who?” I whisper.
He shakes his head again. “She misses her. Badly. Won’t say it. But she does.”
“She’s six,” I say softly. “She feels everything.”
He looks at me—finally, fully.
“And I can’t… I can’t replace her mom.”
“You’re not trying to,” I tell him gently.
“I am,” he says, voice thick. “I’m trying every damn day.”
And then I understand. Why he doesn’t decorate. Why he looks at Christmas like it’s something he wants to run from. Why he’s building walls so high around himself he can’t see over them. He’s terrified of Holly getting attached. Terrified of losing her. Terrified of failing her.
And maybe…maybe terrified of letting himself care too much. For her. For me.
Holly waddles over with the stocking, holding it high. “Uncle Ash, can we hang this?”
He clears his throat. “Kid—”
She frowns, lip wobbling. “Mommy made it.”
Something cracks in his expression—not a break, not a crumble, but a single fracture in the armor he wears like a second skin. He kneels down to her level. “Okay,” he murmurs. “We can hang the stocking.”
Holly squeals and runs to find tape. When she disappears into the kitchen, Ash stands slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Thanks for the cookies,” he mutters. “You can go now if you want.”
I stare at him. Go? After that? Absolutely not.
I step in front of him. “No.”
He looks startled. “What do you mean, no?”
“No, I’m not leaving you like this.”
“I’m fine,” he snaps.
“You’re lying.”
He locks his jaw.
I soften my voice. “Ash. Let me help.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Ash—”
“Lucy.” My name is a warning. A plea. A boundary. But I don’t move.
“Why don’t you decorate?” I ask quietly. “Really.”
He looks at the empty living room walls like they’re ghosts.
“Because,” he finally whispers, “if I decorate… it means this is real.” My heart stops. “And if it’s real…” His voice cracks. “It means one day she’ll have to leave. And I can’t—” He shakes his head hard. “I can’t let her get comfortable like that. Not when it’s temporary.”
My throat tightens. “Ash… no.”
Before I can touch him, he steps back, breathing too fast. “She’s not mine,” he rasps.
“I did my best to be in her life before but even then I only saw her a few times a year–I mean, I’m the only man that’s ever been in her life.
Her only father figure. And this—this whole thing—will disappear when my sister comes home. ”
“And when is that?” I ask softly. “I don’t know.” His voice breaks again. “Could be months. Could be a year. Could be longer.”
“And until then,” I whisper, “you’re giving her everything.” He flinches. “You think she doesn’t know that?” I press gently. “You think she doesn’t feel how much you love her?”
His jaw flexes. Not with anger. With fear.
Holly runs back in, tape dangling off her tiny fingers. “Lucy! Help me hang it!”
I smile at her. “Of course.”
I grab the tape and help her secure the little stocking above the fireplace. It fits perfectly, dangling slightly crooked, but full of heart.
Holly claps. “There!” Ash watches us—silent, guarded, shaking slightly. Holly beams up at him. “Now it looks like Christmas!”
He swallows hard, trying to smile. “Yeah, kid. It does.”
For just a moment, he looks like a man standing in the doorway of something he wants but can’t admit he’s afraid to reach for.
A home. A family. Love.
Then the walls slam back into place.
“Bath time,” he says gruffly. “Go grab your pajamas.”
Holly zooms off. He sinks into the armchair like he’s collapsing. I stand in front of him. “Ash…”
He rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Lucy, I can’t—”
“You can,” I whisper. “And you are.”
His hands fall from his face. He meets my gaze. And for a moment—one heartbeat—he lets me see him fully. Raw. Exhausted. Terrified. Trying.
God, it hits deep.
“Ash,” I whisper, “you’re not going to lose her.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I insist. “Because she has you. And you show up. Every day. Even when it hurts. Even when you don’t know how.
Even when you’re scared out of your mind.
” His breath is uneven. I kneel in front of him, voice soft but certain.
“You’re doing more than you think. More than she knows. More than anyone knows.”
He looks at me like the words hit deeper than they should. Then—quietly, desperately—he whispers: “Lucy… I don’t know how to do this.”
“You’re doing it,” I whisper back.
His eyes flick to my mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough for my heart to flip.
Then he stands abruptly, breaking the moment. “I need to check on Holly.”
He walks away before I can say anything else. I watch him go, my breath stuck somewhere between my chest and throat.
He’s hurting. He’s overwhelmed. He’s terrified. But he’s also… good. So damn good it hurts to look at him sometimes.
Holly comes barreling back out of the hallway in dinosaur pajamas. "Lucy, can you read me a story?"
I glance toward the hallway where Ash disappeared.
“Only if your uncle says it’s okay.”
“It’s okay,” his voice calls quietly.
Holly cheers. I settle onto the couch, Holly snuggling under my arm, the little stocking swinging above the fireplace.
Ash appears in the doorway. He leans against the frame.
Arms crossed. Eyes on me. Expression unreadable.
But not empty. Oh no. Not empty at all. Something real flickers there—something careful and dangerous and alive.
Something that scares him. And something that might ruin me.
I open the book. Holly leans into me. Ash doesn’t move.
And as I read, I feel his gaze.
Warm. Heavy. Unspoken.
And I know—down to my bones—
This man is not temporary. Not for me. Not for Holly. Not anymore.
Because some things don’t fade. Some things don’t burn out. Some things spark… and keep sparking… until you’re standing in the doorway of something you can’t walk away from.
No matter how hard you try.