Heat in the bones of a house always comes like a slow apology. It crawls up walls, slips under doors, puts hands around things that forgot they had edges. Ember leans closer to the unit like she can thank it. I wipe my palms on the rag and step back.
“Clay,” she says to the flame. “How long were you with her?”
“Dani?” I keep my eyes on the pilot. “Since we were kids. Off and on in high school. On for real after bootcamp.”
“And the fire,” she says quietly. “You were there.”
“I was around the corner.” I feel the old iron door swinging shut behind me. I push a boot against it, keep it open just enough to breathe. “Back then we didn’t roll two engines for a single-family alarm. Just us, nozzle and driver. I went in to check and it flashed. I backed out, like I was trained. Radioed. Waited.”
Ember’s breath is careful. “She was inside.”
It’s strange what brains keep, what they make up later. “But there was a load-bearing wall we didn’t know was rotten. It took the kitchen. By the time the second engine got there—” I break off. The door wants to slam. “Don’t matter what we might’ve done. What happened is what happened. She was gone.”
Silence in a basement is different. It adds weight to the things you don’t say.
“I’m sorry.” Ember’s voice doesn’t reach for me; it lets me come to it. “That you had to wait. That you have to live with the waiting.”
I prop my shoulder against the cold wall. “All I do is stand where I’m told until the worst part passes. That’s the job.”
“And the life?”
I huff a laugh that never smiles. “Same rules. You push feelings back behind the line. You keep your head clear. You don’t get sloppy. You leave before the debris shifts.”
Ember rubs her palms together like she can knit heat with friction. “I throw myself into the room and start painting.”
“That tracks,” I say dryly.
“Shockingly, my method is less safe.”
“Shockingly,” I agree.
She looks at me, head tipped, studying like she’s sighting a horizon. “You ever get tired of safe?”
“Every day,” I say. “But tired doesn’t stop a building from falling.”
“Sometimes,” she says, “it keeps you from stepping inside at all.”
We stare at each other across a concrete floor and a pretend engagement. She’s right. I hate that she’s right. I respect the hell out of her for saying it anyway.
“Come on,” I say, jerking my chin toward the stairs. “Let’s see if this old beast can thaw your toes.”
Upstairs, the cabin is already shifting toward warm. Ember pads into the tiny kitchen, puts a kettle on the stove, then turns to lean against the counter like she’s braced for impact.
“I didn’t mean to push Gabe,” she says. “He likes to talk while he cleans hose and I like to listen while people talk, and before I knew it?—”
“You didn’t push him.” I move toward the window, check the frost lacing the corners. “He thinks I’m stuck. He’s not wrong.”
Her laugh is quick, startled. “He thinks I’m the pry bar?”
“He thinks you’re a blowtorch.”
“Well.” She flicks the stove on and lifts a brow. “Maybe I am.”
“Don’t set my life on fire, Ember.”
“You already did that to mine.” She winces, then grimaces. “Too soon?”
“Always,” I say, and the worst part is that I’m almost smiling.
