Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 48039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Inside, I lock the door, lean my forehead to the wood, breathe, and listen. His footsteps fade. My hands still smell like smoke and paper and him.
On the kitchen table, I put one letter down under the salt shaker so I can see it when I wake. May 27. I do the dishes. I brush my teeth. I stand at the window and watch the path the two of us made melt into darkness.
My heart doesn’t feel like a siren anymore. It feels like a metronome ticking toward soon.
When I finally crawl into bed, I close my eyes and see his thumb against my wrist, the box, the line I love you written like he couldn’t hide it anymore.
I sleep. For the first time in years, I don’t dream of flames. I dream of letters with stamps on them, actual stamps, and of blueberry cinnamon pancakes at my door, and the look on his face when I say yes.
Chapter Eleven
Axel
I don’t sleep. Not really. I lie on my back in the bunk, one forearm over my eyes, and replay the kiss until my ribs ache like I sprinted the ridge and back. The station hums around me—every sound slots into the old map of this building, and none of it settles me.
Her mouth. Her hands on my face. The way It wasn’t your fault. It was his love rewired something inside my chest. And then her yes—reckless and certain—turning into heat that might carry us straight through the floor.
By the time dawn drags gray over the bay windows, my pulse is still pitched up. I splash cold water on my face and tell my reflection to behave. It glares back like it doesn’t take orders.
Savannah beats me to the kitchen. She’s in her uniform pants and a sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed to her elbows, hair in a messy braid that won’t survive the morning. She’s pouring coffee when she hears my boots and goes still the way prey does right before it bolts or bites.
“Morning,” I say, aiming for neutral and landing somewhere south of hoarse.
“Hey.” She doesn’t look up right away. The mug wobbles on the counter. She steadies it with fingers that are too steady on scene and not steady enough here. “Sleep?”
“Not a lot.” I pour my own and give us space because I meant it—no ambushing her through a hangover of emotion. “You?”
She huffs a laugh that isn’t funny. “I dreamed in color for the first time in forever.”
“Good… or bad?”
She lifts one shoulder. “Loud.”
I lean against the counter, put the island between us because I’m not stupid. She circles the rim of her mug with her finger like she could wear the ceramic down to a calmer shape.
“Last night—” she starts, then winces. “I can’t do words for it yet.”
“You don’t have to,” I say. “We can let it be what it was and not interrogate it at dawn.”
Her mouth pulls like she’s grateful and furious about it. “That makes me want to interrogate it.”
“Then interrogate it when you want. I’ll stand still.”
Her gaze flashes up fast, spears me, skitters away. “I don’t… I want… That’s the problem.”
A beat of silence. The heater kicks. Footsteps thump down the hallway. We both step back like teenagers caught making out behind the gym bleachers.
“Savannah,” I say, keeping my voice low because there’s a personnel file down the hall with my name on it and I can’t afford to make it interesting, “I’ll give you space.”
She nods quickly, like she needed the offer more than she wanted to. “Thank you.”
I take my mug and the hit that comes with the words and go check the rig. It’s a relief to put hands on something that doesn’t flinch—restock, pressure checks, little rituals that keep the universe in its lane. But even with the distance, I feel her move through the building. It’s not imagination. It’s a physics problem I’ve never solved: wherever she is, the room tilts that way. My skin knows before my eyes do.
The morning ticks forward. The crew gossip pings gentle and cruel as always, but they read us well enough not to poke—yet. The sky turns from dishwater to pearl. I’m halfway through a silent argument with a stubborn coupling when the tones drop.
The room changes temperature. Conversations shear off mid-syllable. Radios spit to life.
“Structure fire, Juniper Road. Reports of a barn fully involved. Possible entrapment. Caller states owner entered to free livestock and hasn’t come back out.”
We’re moving before the last word lands. Boots. Coats. Masks. Straps. The station becomes a chaotic hive.
Savannah appears from nowhere, crisp and composed. We fall into position without talking about it—she hits the ambulance with Torres at her shoulder, I pull the engine with the Captain. The doors roll up and winter wind slaps us. The siren lifts its wail and the town opens in front of us, making room for our speed and hoping we have enough time.