Page 17 of Embers in Autumn

Dean

Fuck.

I hadn’t meant for it to go that far. When I picked up my phone tonight, all I’d wanted was to send her a quick text, let her know I was sorry for not saying anything since this morning. I’d planned on taking a shower, washing the smoke and sweat off, and crashing into bed.

But then she told me she was reading a firefighter romance. Of all things.

The image of her curled up in bed with some shirtless guy on the cover—worse, some fantasy version of me—did something to me I hadn’t been ready for.

My brain painted the picture too well. Amber, hair down, biting her lip, bare legs tangled in a blanket, a book in one hand and her other sliding lower.

Jesus.

By the time I started teasing her about it, my cock was already hard.

But when she admitted she was following my instructions, touching herself while I fed her filth through the phone?

I lost it. I hadn’t even seen her, but knowing she was obeying me, that she was trembling because I told her to… it wrecked me.

Now I was flat on my bed, phone still glowing on the nightstand, my body strung so tight it hurt.

My cock pressed painfully against the front of my sweats, and every time I shifted, I imagined her hand instead of mine.

Her wet, soft heat wrapping around me, her voice breaking while she begged me not to stop.

I shoved a hand through my hair and groaned. Get it together, Bennett. But the truth was, I didn’t want to get it together. I wanted her. I wanted her spread out on my sheets, crying my name while I fucked her until she forgot the asshole who had ever made her doubt she was worth the world.

Fuck.

I rolled off the bed, stripping as I went, leaving a trail of clothes across the floor.

The shower hissed on, steam filling the small room, but I knew damn well this wasn’t about washing smoke off anymore.

My cock ached, thick and heavy, and all I could think about was Amber.

Amber with her hazel eyes glazed, Amber whispering Dean while her fingers worked between her thighs, Amber opening her mouth for me, begging for more.

I stepped under the spray, hot water pounding my shoulders, and wrapped my fist around myself. One stroke, two, and I was gone, hips snapping, breath ragged as I chased the ghost of her touch.

“Fuck, Amber,” I muttered, head dropping against the tile.

The fantasy took me under, vivid and brutal.

Her on her knees in front of me, lips wrapped around my cock, gagging sweetly when I pushed deeper.

Her beneath me, nails raking my back as I drove into her, hard and rough, until she was screaming into my shoulder.

Her riding me, sweat dripping down her chest, hair sticking to her flushed skin, while I grabbed her hips and slammed her down over and over.

I jerked faster, water cascading, every nerve lit like fire. I wanted it too much. Needed it too much.

The release hit hard, tearing a groan out of me as my whole body shuddered. Hot and violent, spilling across my hand and washing away in the stream. I stood there for a long moment, chest heaving, forehead pressed to cool tile, trying to breathe her out of my system.

But she didn’t leave. Even as the water rinsed me clean, she clung to me, the memory of her voice, her laugh, the way she had tasted on my lips.

Thank God I’d been so dead on my feet last night. Otherwise, I would have been up until dawn, wound tight and thinking of Amber. As it was, the second my head hit the pillow, I was gone.

She was in my dreams, of course. But instead of what my body craved, the dream had been painfully decent.

We were in the bookstore, Lana laughing with her over some silly display, Amber’s hazel eyes catching mine like they always did.

I woke up both disappointed and oddly steadied, like my brain was reminding me she wasn’t just the heat. She was more.

By the time I dragged myself into the kitchen, the sun was low and bright over the hill, and the damn coffee machine was rattling like it was about to launch into orbit. I’d been meaning to replace it for months, but somehow, I always found an excuse not to.

The noise brought Lana shuffling down the hall, hair sticking out on one side, face scrunched into a scowl. “Dad. It sounds like a jet engine.”

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” I said, pouring water into the machine. “Want a ham omelet?”

She yawned wide enough to show all her teeth, then nodded, dropping into a chair at the table. I cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a fork, and threw slices of ham into the pan. The smell lifted the grump right out of the air.

By the time I slid her plate in front of her, she was awake enough to eat without complaint. I sat down with mine, poking at it while the words I needed to say gathered like rocks in my throat.

“Hey,” I said finally. “Do you remember the lady from the bookstore? Amber.”

“Yeah. What about her?”

I rubbed the back of my neck, staring at the steam curling off my omelet. “Well… I, uh, invited her over for dinner tomorrow. If that’s okay with you.”

Her eyes widened, surprise flashing across her face. She blinked at me, then set her fork down slowly. “Wait. You invited her? Like… for dinner? Here?”

“Yeah. Just dinner. Nothing crazy.”

“Dad,” she said, still stunned, “you don’t date. Like… ever.”

The words hit harder than she knew. I sat back, taking a breath, feeling the weight of it. “If it bothers you,” I said carefully, “I can cancel.”

She studied me for a long moment, her expression too sharp for twelve. Then, slowly, she smiled. “No. It doesn’t bother me. It’s just… in all the years I’ve known you, you never brought anybody home.”

I pushed a piece of omelet around my plate, suddenly sixteen myself. “Well.”

She stood, padding to the fridge, and pulled out the orange juice. The carton thunked against the table as she poured herself a glass. “This woman must be special.”

I didn’t answer, not out loud. Amber was special.

More than I’d expected. I dropped our plates into the sink, rinsed them, and grabbed my keys while Lana slipped on her backpack.

She dragged her feet out to the truck, still clutching the last half of her omelet folded into a piece of toast like I wouldn’t notice.

On the road, the morning sun painted the whole town in gold. She chewed, swallowed, then looked over at me with that sharp curiosity that was too old for her age.

“So,” she said. “What are you making?”

I frowned. “What am I—what?”

“For the date.” She said it casual, but her eyes glittered with mischief.

“It’s not really a date,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road. “It’s more like a get-to-know-each-other dinner. ”

She grinned. “Uh-huh. So what are you making?”

I sighed, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel. “I hadn’t thought that far.”

“Tuna pasta bake,” she declared. “It’s your best dish.”

I gave her a side glance. “You’re telling me to make tuna pasta bake for Amber.”

“Yup. But not the canned stuff. Get fresh tuna. She’ll be impressed.”

“I thought pancakes were my signature dish.”

She blinked at me, deadpan. “Dad. Pancakes are breakfast. You can’t serve breakfast for dinner.”

“Why not? People do it all the time. Breakfast for dinner is a thing.”

“Not when you’re trying to impress a woman,” she shot back, rolling her eyes. “Do you want her to think you can only cook like, three things?”

“I can cook more than three things.”

“Name four.”

I gripped the wheel tighter, trying not to laugh. “Steak.”

“That’s one.”

“Burgers.”

“Still beef.”

“Chili.”

“Beef again.”

“Lasagna,” I said triumphantly.

She crossed her arms. “That’s just fancy beef layered with noodles.”

I groaned, leaning my head back against the seat for a second. “You’re relentless.”

“Someone has to be,” she said, grinning. “Otherwise you’d feed her pancakes and call it a night.”

“Pancakes are good,” I muttered.

“Yeah. For breakfast,” she teased, turning back to the window.

We pulled up in front of the school, the lawn covered in kids in too-big coats and backpacks bouncing like parachutes. She opened the door, slung her bag over her shoulder, then paused and looked back at me.

“Seriously, Dad. Tuna pasta bake. With the fresh stuff.”

I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Fresh tuna. Pasta bake. You win.”

“I always do.” She smirked, then hopped down from the truck, darting toward a cluster of her friends. I watched her go, shaking my head with a smile I couldn’t quite hold back. She was right, of course. She usually was.

After dropping Lana at school, I pulled out of the lot and headed across town. The minute I parked outside the store for groceries, I pulled out my phone.

Dean: Good morning. Quick question—does tuna pasta bake work for dinner?

It took a minute, then my screen lit up.

Amber: Are you asking if I like it or if I know how to make it?

I barked a laugh right there in the driver’s seat, shaking my head.

Dean: No, no. I’ll make it. Just wanted to check before I bought everything.

Her reply came fast.

Amber: I do :)

That tiny smiley face went straight through me. Ridiculous that a little symbol could make me feel lighter than the sun on my shoulders.

I shoved the phone back in my pocket, pushed a cart down the aisles, and got everything I needed. Fresh tuna, pasta, cream, cheese. The good stuff. I wasn’t about to serve Amber something half-assed.

Back home, I set the bags on the counter and looked around the house.

The walls, the floor, the damn curtains.

All of it suddenly looked like it needed work.

Before I could think twice, I rolled up my sleeves and went at it.

Vacuuming every corner. Wiping down shelves I hadn’t looked at in months.

Even swapping out the living room curtains for the spare set in the closet.

By the time I was done, the place smelled faintly of lemon polish and laundry detergent. If anyone had walked in on me in that moment, they would have sworn Christmas was coming. Or maybe a surprise inspection from the fire chief.

The truth was simpler. I just wanted Amber to walk in my house and feel welcome. Feel at home.

When the afternoon rolled around, I picked Lana up from school. She climbed into the truck, chattering about a quiz and a group project, then gave me a look as I pulled into the lot by the flower shop.

“Flowers?” she asked.

“Flowers,” I confirmed.

Inside, the air smelled of fresh soil and roses. My sister’s shop always had a warmth to it, sunlight spilling across neat rows of arrangements. Lana helped me pick out a bouquet—something autumnal, warm yellows and deep oranges with a hint of red.

“You should get her a Labubu doll too,” Lana said suddenly, eyeing a stuffed display near the counter.

I froze. “A what now?”

She grinned like she’d caught me off guard. “Labubu. They’re collectible little monster dolls. Everyone online is crazy about them.”

“I’m buying flowers, kid, not a haunted gremlin.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “See, this is why you need me. You don’t know the important things.”

“Pretty sure flowers count as important,” I said, paying for the bouquet. “And I think Amber will appreciate something that doesn’t look like it crawled out of a nightmare.”

“You’d be surprised,” Lana muttered, smirking. “Then, can I have one?”

“No, they make my skin crawl.”

I shook my head as we walked back to the truck, bouquet in hand, the weight of tonight settling in deeper. Flowers, pasta, a house that didn’t look like a fire station locker room— God, I hoped it would be enough.