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)
We haven’t said she moved in.
We don’t have to.
Savannah pads into the kitchen wearing that stolen gray shirt and a pair of sleep shorts that should be illegal, hair in a messy knot, cheeks still warm from sleep. She yawns, opens a cupboard like she’s always known where everything lives, and reaches for her mug. I lean a shoulder on the doorframe and watch the morning claim her: the way she rises on her toes to grab the sugar, the way she hums without realizing it, the way her eyes find me and soften like the first sun on new snow.
“You’re staring,” she says, pouring coffee.
“I paid for this view,” I answer. “With ten years of penance.”
“Hmm.” She blows across the rim and takes a careful sip. “Penance accepted.”
The corner of my mouth tips. “So magnanimous.”
“You’re lucky I’m in a generous mood.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you put my mugs on the second shelf instead of the top and that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
I cross to her. “That’s a low bar, Brooks.”
“Then raise it,” she says, chin lifting, mouth curving. “I dare you.”
I cage her against the counter with my palms, one on each side of her hips. Her lashes flutter, then steady. She doesn’t look away. She never does. For a beat the only sound is the coffee machine sighing and whatever’s pounding in my chest, insistent as a siren.
“Later,” I murmur against her temple, claiming a breath I shouldn’t. “After the station.”
Her hand fists in the hem of my shirt like she might anchor me there. “Promises, Ramirez.”
“Threats, Brooks.”
She hides a smile behind her mug and pushes past me with a sway of hips that feels like a crime scene. On the couch she tucks one leg under, curls around her coffee, and scans the morning sky through the window. Snow flurries skate the glass. Devil’s Peak is a cutout of blue-gray granite and cloud. The Phantom River glints a hard silver line behind the pines.
“Big day,” she says lightly.
“Nope.”
“Don’t be grumpy. The crew worked hard on this.”
“They taped a banner to the rafters.”
“And baked cinnamon rolls.”
“Levi bought them.”
She laughs, bright and impossible to recover from. “You’re going to smile at least once.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“We’re not teenagers, Savannah. We don’t need a plaque that says ‘look who figured it out.’”
“Speak for yourself.” She sets the mug down and rises, crossing back to me. Her palms slide over my chest, slow and claiming. “I would like the plaque.”
“That so?”
“I like shiny things.” Her voice tips lower. “Rings, for example.”
My pulse trips. She looks up at me through her lashes and I feel every year I carried her ghost. I swallow, find steadier ground in teasing. “Subtle.”
“I’m a paramedic. We don’t do subtle. We say what needs saying.”
“I admire that.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah,” I tell her truthfully, curling a hand at her waist. “I really do.”
Her gaze flickers to my mouth and back. The room tilts warmer. If we don’t leave now, we’ll be late and the city will burn and somehow it will be my fault.
“Boots,” I say, stepping back like I didn’t just think about lifting her onto the counter and finding out what ‘generous mood’ really means. “We’re out the door in two.”
“Yes, Captain,” she salutes, eyes laughing.
I grab my jacket, my keys, and the box burning a hole in the inner pocket. The weight is small, but it drags at me the way gravity drags falling stars—inevitable, bright, dangerous if mishandled. Not yet, I tell it. Tonight. By the firepit where I gave her the letters and she gave me back air.
We step out into a wind scented with fir and woodsmoke. Flurries dust her hair. She tilts her face into the cold and smiles like this is what she came home for—mountain light, winter breath, me at her side like I’ve always belonged there.
I open the truck. She climbs in. I circle around, touch the ring box once through the jacket, and tell myself the crew can tape up as many ridiculous flame stickers as they want; I’ve got the only banner that matters waiting for the dark.
The firehouse is a riot of cinnamon, cheap garland, and louder-than-necessary whistling the moment we step into the bay. Someone strung market lights between the beams like we’re hosting a barn wedding. There’s a hand-painted sign—Levi’s handwriting, God help us—propped on the ladder truck: COUPLE OF THE YEAR and beneath it, in Sharpie chaos, a long list of previous “winners,” most of whom are fictional: Talon & a Hose Reel, Levi & His Reflection, Captain Cole & The Clipboard.
“Congratulations!” Dax sings from the kitchen door, apron covered in flour. “You two win by unanimous vote.”
“Who voted?” I ask.
“Me. But I voted loudly.”
Savannah laughs, cheeks already pink. She loves this place, even the ugly linoleum and the dent in the bay door we all pretend not to see. Her gaze flits to me; I keep my face stone-calm. The crew deserves a challenge.