Gillian took another step forward, heels clicking against concrete with the same certainty I’d heard in her voice four years ago when she’d told me she was leaving. Only this time, she was walking toward me instead of away, and I had know idea what to do with that. Had no idea what to do with the hope trying to claw its way up my throat despite everything I knew about endings.
“Can we talk?” Her voice carried across the bay, steady as bedrock, but her fingers flexed against her thigh in that nervous rhythm I remembered from law school applications and goodbyes.
The sinking started in my chest and spread outward, cold despite the morning heat. Here it came—the gentle letdown, the carefully worded explanation about how last night was wonderful but she had a life in Chicago, a promotion waiting, responsibilities that didn’t include small-town firefighters who couldn’t let go of the past.
I pushed to my feet, joints protesting after too long in one position. My head jerked toward the far corner of the bay, where the ladder truck threw enough shadow to give us privacy from the vultures pretending to inventory supplies ten feet away.
Tipping up her sunglasses, she followed without hesitation, those heels tapping out a countdown to whatever end she’d come to deliver. The sound bounced off the concrete walls, each click another second closer to watching her walk away. Again.
I stopped near the truck’s massive tire, crossing my arms partly to look casual, mostly to keep my hands from reaching for her. The apology sat ready on my tongue—sorry for pushing about the promotion, sorry for making things complicated, sorryfor loving her when she needed me to let go. Get it over with clean, like ripping off a bandage. Quick pull, sharp pain, then nothing.
“About yesterday?—”
“I quit.”
The words crashed into mine, derailing whatever noble speech I’d been preparing. She stood there in that sundress, sunlight catching the green in her eyes through the shadows, looking anything but defeated. Her whole body hummed with energy, like she’d been plugged into a live wire. Not the exhausted woman who’d cried in my arms three days ago. Not the uncertain one who’d said, ‘I don’t know’ like an apology.
“You what?”
“I quit. Called my managing partner an hour ago.” She shifted her weight, those fingers still dancing against her leg, but her chin stayed high. “Told him thanks but no thanks on the promotion. Told him I wouldn’t be coming back at all.”
The bay suddenly felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked out through the open doors. Behind us, someone dropped something metallic—probably Twitch falling off his chair—but I couldn’t tear my gaze from her face, searching for signs this was some kind of heat-induced hallucination.
“Gillian—”
“I also told my parents to back off about the bar.” The words tumbled faster now, like she needed to get them all out before she lost her nerve. “They showed up at Doc’s yesterday with an offer from some developer. Dad was doing his whole intimidation routine, where he makes you feel like wanting anything other than a corner office makes you defective.”
Yeah, Edgar Holliday had perfected the art of dismissal. He could make you feel small with just the angle of his eyebrows.
“Doc was actually considering it. Not because he wants to sell, but because he thinks he’s being selfish keeping me here.”She took a step closer, and I caught that floral scent again, mixing with the diesel and metal of the firehouse. “So I told them no. Told them I hated law, hated everything about the life they’d mapped out for me, and I was done living for their approval.”
My arms had uncrossed without my permission, hands hanging useless at my sides while my brain tried to process what she was saying. Not goodbye. Not another explanation for why we couldn’t work. She’d blown up her entire life, and she stood here practically vibrating with something that looked dangerously like relief.
“But that’s not why I’m here.” She stepped closer, and the full force of her gaze hit me like water from a high-pressure hose. “I mean, it’s part of it, but?—”
She took another step, close enough now that I could see the faint freckles across her nose, the ones that only showed up in summer. Her fingers had stopped their nervous dance, both hands steady at her sides like she’d made peace with whatever came next.
“I’m staying. I’m taking over the bar.” Her voice grew stronger with each word, like she was convincing herself as much as me. “And I’m... making the choice I should have made four years ago.”
The morning sounds of the firehouse faded to white noise. Somewhere behind us, Moose was definitely listening, probably had Twitch in a headlock to keep him quiet. The fans kept churning overhead, pushing hot air around, but I’d gone cold and hot at the same time, skin too tight for whatever was trying to burst out of my chest.
Her gaze didn’t waver, those green eyes holding mine with the same intensity she’d had the night she’d kissed me for the first time, all those years ago behind the saloon. “You.”
The word landed like a physical thing, solid and real and impossible.
You.
Not the job. Not Chicago. Not the life her parents had charted out in color-coded spreadsheets and ten-year plans.
Me.
The walls I’d spent four years building, brick by careful brick, started coming down all at once. Not a controlled demolition but a complete collapse, leaving me standing in the rubble trying to remember how to breathe. She’d chosen me. Chosen us. Chosen this life that had nothing to do with corner offices or billable hours or whatever the hell corporate mergers actually were.
Relief crashed through me so hard my knees actually buckled. I caught myself against the ladder truck, the metal cool under my palm, grounding me in the moment. This was real. She was real. Standing there in that sundress with her shoulders back and her chin up like she was ready to fight me if I tried to talk her out of it.
As if I would. As if I could. As if I wanted anything other than to close the distance between us and show her exactly how many times I’d dreamed of hearing those words.
“Gillian.” Her name came out rough, scraped raw by everything I was trying not to say yet. Not here, not with half the firehouse pretending not to watch through the gap between the trucks.
