Epilogue
The bay doors are open onto Prospect Street, the September sun is pouring in, and my tray of caramels is almost empty.
Both crews fill the station—structural on one side, wildland on the other, kids running between them, folding tables covered in food nobody remembers who brought. The annual end-of-summer BBQ. Five years of this tradition, and every year the table gets longer.
Holt is at the grill because nobody else is allowed near it.
The salt-and-pepper at his temples has spread past distinguished into something Lea calls “the full captain.” Ace is two weeks old, asleep against Holt’s chest in a carrier, unbothered by the smoke and the noise and the fact that his father is flipping burgers one-handed.
Lea is beside him with a coffee, dark circles under her eyes, radiant in a way that has nothing to do with rest and everything to do with the man holding their son against his heartbeat.
She catches me looking and raises her mug.
Drew is in a camp chair with Jani on his lap.
She’s three, dark auburn hair already in a braid, bossing our Hudson around from her father’s knee with Kendall’s absolute certainty that she’s in charge.
Kendall is beside him, eight months pregnant with their second—a boy, Jett, due in six weeks.
Drew’s hand rests on her belly, and he’s watching her talk to Lea with the same expression he had the day he walked into the outfitter and couldn’t look away.
Mack is telling a story—he’s always telling a story—and Scarlett is on his shoulders, three years old, slapping the top of his head every time he pauses for dramatic effect.
Luna is asleep on Ellie’s chest on the bench, one year old, fist curled in the collar of Ellie’s shirt.
Ellie has a paperback open in one hand, reading over the baby’s head.
Mack finishes the story and turns to her for a reaction. She doesn’t look up. She’s smiling.
Dean is standing near the engine with perfect posture, cutting Leilani’s hot dog into precise, even pieces.
She’s three and waiting in his arms with the patience of a daughter who already knows her father does things right or not at all.
Laurelle is beside him with Max on her hip—one year old, asleep against her shoulder, unbothered by the noise.
Laurelle arranged the wildflowers on the table, the same glass jar, same spot every week.
Dean hasn’t stopped resting a hand on his son’s back since they brought him home, which on Dean looks like a very slight softening around the jaw.
Graham is against the engine bay wall with his arms crossed, tracking the room.
Old habits. His gaze sweeps the bay every thirty seconds—exits, kids, hazards.
Neve is cross-legged on the concrete with Ember in her lap, three years old, pulling at a ball of beeswax with chubby fingers.
The candlemaker’s daughter. Graham’s gaze lands on Neve and holds.
Five seconds. She doesn’t look up. She never has to. She always knows when he’s looking.
Levi is on his truck tailgate at the edge of the bay, Amelia asleep against his chest. She’s not quite one, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, one hand curled around the collar of his flannel.
His palm covers her entire back. Iris is beside them, leaning into his other shoulder, sketchbook open.
She’s drawing the whole scene—the bay, the engines, the families, the late-summer light.
I catch a glimpse of the page and see myself in charcoal.
Holding Logan, caramel tray balanced on one hip.
She’s been drawing me for years, but the early portraits were Millie laughing, Millie bright.
This one is different. This one is Millie at rest. The gallery still has two permanent walls—his carvings east, her portraits west. Neither is for sale.
And then I find Weston.
He’s across the bay talking to Holt, and Hudson is on his shoulders, three years old, gripping fistfuls of his father’s dark hair.
Weston is laughing—the kind of laugh that didn’t exist five years ago, when he was the quiet one nobody noticed, walking through a courtyard full of love stories that weren’t his.
Five years on the wildland team. Five years of deployments, fire seasons, weeks in the backcountry. Five years of coming home.
He catches me looking and crosses the bay. He takes a caramel off the tray—the same gesture, every time. The small yes that replaced the first no, the night he walked through smoke into my shop and refused to take what I offered because he wanted something realer than sugar.
“You’re almost out,” he says, nodding at the tray.
“I’ve been saying that for an hour. Mack keeps circling back.”
“Mack’s had six.”
“Seven. He keeps walking past with Scarlett on his shoulders and grabbing one while she covers his eyes.” I shift Logan on my hip. “Your son needs a diaper change.”
“He’s your son when he needs a diaper change.”
“He’s my son when he’s charming. He’s yours when he smells.”
Weston grins. That grin still catches me off guard because it took a year of loving him before I saw it without having to earn it first. He takes Logan from my hip, settles him against his chest, leans down, and presses his mouth to my temple.
“Best caramel you’ve ever made,” he says.
Same thing he says every time. Same answer every time.
“You say that about every batch.”
“Every batch is your best one.” His free hand finds the back of my neck. Warm. Steady. Present.
The bay is full of noise—kids, laughter, Mack’s voice carrying over everything. Two engines in the same house, two crews and their families. Seven couples who found each other in old stone buildings and a firehouse on Prospect Street.
I used to watch this from the outside. I used to hand out free samples and cheer for everyone else and wonder what was wrong with me that nobody ever stopped.
Someone stopped. Someone looked. And he’s standing beside me with caramel on his fingers and our son against his chest, and I’m not the last one standing.
I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Weston shows up at the candy shop to find Millie wearing only an apron in a steamy bonus scene.