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The memory snapped off when Eleanor Holloway reached over and squeezed her hand, fingers warm and surprisingly strong. Eleanor didn’t say a word. She just held on for a second, then let go, her attention fixed forward on the pastor.

The service was familiar and strange at the same time. The choir sang a medley of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” and “Go Tell It on the Mountain,” followed by a string quartet that was mostly violin and a little bit of cello. The pastor, a tall man with the kind of voice you could hear over a four-alarm blaze, read from Luke and then launched into a sermon about the courage it took to trust God in the dark. “It is not knowing the outcome,” he told the congregation, “but knowing who holds the outcome that gives us courage to fight through the darkness, through the unknown.”

Desiree kept her eyes forward, hands knotted in her lap. She tried to listen, to let it mean something, but her head was already cycling the steps of the plan—timelines, angles, fallback options. The church air was thick with perfume, candle wax, and something tangy she guessed was Christmas candles. Brandon’s shoulder pressed hard against hers in the crowded pew, anchoring her to the here and now.

When the congregation rose for “O Holy Night,” Desiree mouthed the words, half-remembered from childhood. She wasn’t a singer, and never would be, but the rise of voices around her did enough to cover her imperfections.

Slowly, candles lit around the room as one person passed the flame from one to another. By the end, the entire sanctuary was glowing with a soft, golden light, as the singing swelled. Brandon’s voice was low and steady beside her, his hand finding hers in the dimness. Desiree’s fingers curled around his, grateful for the warmth and his solid presence.

The final prayer ended, and the pastor’s voice echoed through the sanctuary. “Go in peace and may the light of Christ guide you through whatever darkness you face.”

The congregation began to filter out, families shuffling toward the exits, children tugging at parents’ sleeves, eager for dinner, but most importantly, gifts.

Eleanor leaned close to Desiree. “You’re coming for Christmas lunch tomorrow, aren’t you? I’m making my famous baked ham, mashed potatoes and pecan pie.”

Desiree hesitated, glancing at Brandon. “I... I’m not sure what our plans are.”

“Mom, we’ll be there. We wouldn’t miss it,” Brandon assured her, his hand still clasping Desiree’s.

Eleanor’s eyes moved between them, perceptive. “Glad to hear it. I’m looking forward to celebrating with you both.”

The crowd spilled into the foyer and then out into the icy parking lot. Eleanor wrapped her scarf twice around her neck, then pulled both of them into a three-person hug, holding on so tight Desiree thought her ribs might creak. “You drive safe, okay?” She told Brandon, then turned and pressed a kiss to Desiree’s cheek. “Thank you for being here. It made my Christmas Eve perfect.”

Desiree could only nod, voice jammed in her throat.

She watched as Eleanor made her way to her old Camry, then turned to see Brandon watching her, hands jammed into the pockets of his coat.

Desiree felt the cold burning through her layers. She looked at Brandon, then at the sky, as if the next move would be written up there in the stars. It wasn’t, of course. But that didn’t matter. For once, she felt like maybe she could trust the outcome, even if she didn’t know what it was. She stuffed her hands into her own pockets and fell into step beside him, both of them silent as they made their way to the truck.

The world was dark and cold and dangerous, but tonight it was also something else—a little bit hopeful, a little bit holy, and, if she let herself believe it, maybe even a little bit romantic.

It didn’t take long for them to arrive at Brandon’s house. This was where the real trap would be laid. She knew that if the arsonist was going to strike, he was going to do so when it was just Brandon and her alone.

When they entered, the room was lit only by the tree in the front window and the steady pulse of the porch light. They made their way to the kitchen where Brandon set the table with mismatched plates and two heavy mugs, the kind that kept coffee hot long enough to matter. The food was a collection of leftovers—thin-sliced roast beef, a heap of cornbread, and some green beans that had seen better days. He arranged it all with the sort of focus he used for triaging a fire scene, as if getting every detail right would keep the rest of the world from leaking in.

Desiree watched him from across the table, picking at the roast, not really tasting it. Brandon caught her eye, then filled her mug again without comment. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was just full.

She cleared her throat. “I didn’t get you anything fancy,” she started as she reached under the table, fumbled with her bag, and slid a small package across to him. “Open it.”

He glanced at her, then at the paper, tearing it open with more precision than necessary. Inside was a field notebook, battered at the corners, the leather strong and durable like him. His initials were stamped on the cover, bold, and centered.

He turned it in his hands, thumb brushing the edge of the pages. “This is…Actually, this is perfect.”

Desiree felt a strange heat rise to her face. “I figured, if you’re going to be chief, you should have a real logbook about your first days on the job. Not just sticky notes and receipts jammed in your glovebox.”

He nodded, flipping the cover, testing the spine. “Did you break it in for me?”

She shook her head, but he caught the tell in her eyes.

He grinned, a little sideways. “You wrote something, didn’t you?”

“First page. Bottom right.”

He thumbed to it, then squinted at her handwriting. The words were small, almost shy:

Do the right thing, even if it’s hard. — Love, DG

He stared at the line for a long moment, then closed the book. “I’m keeping this with me, everywhere.”