Page 157 of Honeyfires

Miller had handed me a cup of coffee from the top-shelf bag, the Oaxaca single origin, without being asked.

Jackson had said "welcome back" and immediately started telling me what I'd missed, which turned out to be considerable and included the information that Stevens had, in fact, attempted the snickerdoodles alone and had texted Vera seventeen questions during the process.

"Did they come out?" I'd asked.

"They were acceptable," Miller said, which from Miller meant excellent.

The drive home now, five years later, after spending fourteen hours fighting a fire into dawn, was slower than it used to be. I kept my hands steady on the wheel, watched my speed, signaled every lane change with the care of someone who had too much to lose. Five years ago I'd driven like the roads were fire lines and speed was safety. Now I drove like a person who had somewhere important to be and intended to get there.

The house was dark when I pulled into the driveway, sunrise just beginning to paint the desert in pastels. This wasn't the apartment; we'd bought this place two years ago, a ranch-style home in a neighborhood I'd ridden past ten thousand times on Cinder without ever thinking I'd live in. Four bedrooms. A yard big enough for a dog to run. A garage that fit both vehicles with room to spare.

Vera's SUV was in the driveway. Silver, practical, nothing like the powder blue Beetle she'd driven all those years ago. She'd kept Daisy until Daisy genuinely couldn't be coaxed into reliability anymore, and then she'd let her go with the quiet ceremony of someone saying goodbye to an old friend. Cinder, I'd sold before the move to Copper Valley and hadn't replaced. Some trades you made willingly once the circumstances changed.

I let myself in quietly, leaving my gear bag in the front closet.

Photos on the walls. Our wedding at the San Jacinto courthouse two years ago with Vera in a vintage cream dress that she'd made herself, every stitch of it, and me in a tailored suit she'd picked out that I'd have worn anywhere she asked. The two of us at the Grand Canyon. Last summer's Fourth of July block party on our street, the whole neighborhood in our backyard. And the most recent: both of us holding a golden retriever puppy, looking equally terrified and elated.

I stopped by the small dish on the entry table. My wedding ring was there, where I left it before every shift. I slipped it on now, the white gold settling into its familiar place. But even without it, everyone who mattered knew. Vera's name was tattooed around my ring finger in delicate script, permanent in the way we'd decided to be permanent—not because we had to be, because we wanted to be.

Bailey appeared from the hallway, her golden tail wagging so hard her whole back end came with it. Three years old, past the destructive puppy phase, still entirely convinced that my return from any absence was the best thing that had happened to her personally. I crouched down and let her do what she needed to do.

"Hey, girl. Miss me?"

She had big feelings about that.

I stood and followed her down the hall. Three bedroom doors, all closed except the one at the end, which was cracked open with soft butter-yellow light spilling through.

I pushed it open carefully.

The nursery was painted sage green, decorated with the woodland creatures Vera had stenciled herself on a Saturday in October while I held the paint tray and handed her things and tried to be useful and mostly just watched her work. Fairy lights cast gentle shadows. And there, in the rocking chair we'd spent three weeks choosing, was Vera, asleep, her head tilted at an angle that was going to give her a crick in her neck, cat-eye glasses still on, a copy of Persuasion open and face-down on her knee.

I crossed to the crib.

Willow was awake. Eleven months old, her mother's blue eyes tracking the room with that adorable infant focus that made you feel both examined and approved of. When she saw me, her whole face transformed. She kicked her feet, arms reaching, a sound that translated roughly to finally, you're home.

"Hey, little one," I whispered, lifting her out. She was getting solid, less terrifyingly fragile than the bundle we'd brought home from the hospital. "Miss Mama? Mama missed you." I pressed my lips to her dark hair. "I hope you didn't give Mommy too much trouble while I was gone."

"She was a total angel."

Vera's voice, thick with sleep but impossibly warm with a smile underneath. She was watching us, her girls, her family, and Bailey's tail was thumping against my leg in agreement.

Willow chose that moment to make her breakfast feelings known.

"She's hungry," Vera said, already starting to stand. "I'll get her bottle—"

"You rest." I shifted Willow to my hip. "I'll take care of her."

"You just spent all night fighting a fire—"

"And this is my reward." I kissed the top of Willow's head. "Getting to spend time with my special girl. All my special girls."

Vera's expression settled into that adoration I'd never get tired of. "We love you."

"Love you too. Go back to our actual bed. That chair is going to end you."

Willow was asleep again within twenty minutes, milk-drunk and satisfied. I put her back in the crib, checked the monitor, and went to our room.

Vera was there, propped against the pillows, Persuasion retrieved and open. She looked up when I came in, and the smile that crossed her face was the one that had been doing dangerous things to my cardiovascular system since a hallway in an apartment building six years ago.