Page 30

LIV

T he air still smells like burned pine and redemption.

The kind of scent that lingers, thick in the back of your throat, earthy and acrid and strangely comforting.

My chest tightens with it, the memory of heat licking at my skin, smoke curling through my lungs, and the way survival rewrites everything you thought you knew about fear—and about grace.

Three days after the blast, the base thrums with barely contained energy. Fresh recruits shuffle into formation, boots scuffing against sun-warmed pavement, their movements stiff with tension and sweat.

The late summer heat radiates up from the asphalt, baking through their gear, while the tang of scorched brush and engine oil clings to the breeze.

Nervous chatter flickers like static—half-laughs, clipped phrases, the clink of buckles adjusted one last time.

Some smell faintly of coffee and metal polish.

Others still wear the smoke of drills that ran too long.

Every one of them turns when I step forward.

Their chatter dims the second I step onto the field.

Then, just as fast, it swells into cheers.

Loud. Raw. Fierce. A sound I never thought I'd hear again.

The last time I stood before a crew like this, it was under a cloud of suspicion and failure, not triumph.

Bitterroot had left a burn mark across my record—and my pride.

Now, those same scars feel like medals. I let the noise crash over me, bracing against the surge, remembering the silence that came after Bitterroot.

The looks. The doubt. That silence made me question everything.

This noise? This is proof I made it through.

"Monroe!" someone yells.

A dozen others take up the call. Hands slap backs. Helmets lift.

It feels unreal—like stepping into a dream I barely dared to imagine back in that shelter.

But this one smells like clean gear and second chances.

I don’t smile. Not yet. I let it settle around me, steady and quiet, but I keep my spine straight, boots grounded.

I’m not here for applause. I’m here to rebuild.

"At ease," I call out.

They snap into loose formation, posture sharp but relaxed.

"Today isn’t about me," I say. "It’s about what we survived—and what we learn from it."

The crowd quiets, heads nodding.

“You’ve all read the incident report. You’ve seen the drills. But let me tell you what wasn’t in those pages.

Back in Bitterroot, we had thirty seconds to evacuate a site after the wind turned, and the main fire crowned over a ridge we’d believed was stable.

No protocol covered that scenario. No command chain acted fast enough.

We had to rely on each other—on grit, speed, and the kind of trust that doesn’t come from a manual.

I remember the moment one of our rookies, barely twenty, screamed that he smelled smoke behind the line.

He didn’t wait for an order—he pulled two of his squadmates out of the burn zone with seconds to spare.

That kid broke formation, but he saved lives.

That’s what I’m asking from you. Know your training. Don’t let it blind you—let it sharpen you.

What saved lives in that fire wasn’t protocol. It was instinct. It was trust.”

I pause, locking eyes with rookies I dragged out of hell.

“If one of you thinks something’s wrong? Speak up. If your gut says move? Move. And if you ever have to choose between procedure and people—choose people. Every time.”

No one speaks, but something changes—a shared breath, a silent understanding that settles deep in the spine.

Behind them, Chief Ruiz approaches, her gait clipped but not cold. She removes her helmet as she nears, jaw tight like she’s still chewing on her pride.

"Monroe."

"Chief."

She hesitates. Then... “I was wrong. About Bitterroot. About you."

I blink, caught off guard.

"You saved this team, this program, and a chunk of the damn county," she says. "The board wants to reinstate you as Lead Instructor. Effective immediately."

A beat.

Then applause again. Hoots. A whoop from the back.

I spot Reyes near the end of the second row—one of the rookies who froze during the shelter breach drills just a month ago.

Now he’s grinning ear to ear, hands raised high, yelling louder than anyone else.

That change in him? That’s what this is all about.

Beside him, Teague does a fist pump, her face still streaked with soot from an early-morning burn scenario. She’d challenged me hard during her first week—cocky and smart as hell. Now her eyes are bright with something sharper than pride: respect.

And Ruiz? She doesn’t smile, not fully. But her chin dips, just once. A nod meant for me alone. A silent acknowledgment from a woman who doesn’t give them out lightly.

That’s when it hits. I’m not just back. I’m home.

I nod once, calm even though my throat's tight. "Thank you. I accept."

Ruiz doesn’t leave. "There’s more. We’re building a Rapid-Ignition Response Program.

" She pauses, then glances at the recruits still lingering in loose formation.

"This was Kade's idea originally. Said if we wanted to stay ahead of the curve, we needed someone who’s already danced with the fire and lived to tell about it. Said that someone was you."

I blink. "He said that?"

"Didn’t hesitate," Ruiz replies. "Neither did I. The board fought me on it at first, but your record speaks louder than their caution now."

Her voice softens, just a touch. "Monroe, you took a hit no one else would’ve come back from. You could’ve walked away. But instead, you rebuilt from the ash. We don’t just want you leading this—we need you."

I absorb it in silence, the gravity settling deeper than any command ever has.

“Early intervention. Advanced tactics. We want you to lead it. Design it."

"On one condition."

Her brow arches.

"Kade drafts the safety doctrine. And integrates the tech."

The chief’s expression changes—briefly thoughtful. Then she nods. “You got it.”

Granite Peak holds the sunset in perfect stillness, lit with the quiet intensity of flame suspended in air.

Kade and I sit on a rock ledge overlooking the ridge, wind curling around us, dry and warm.

The same ridge where we first worked a wildfire together, long before the sigils and the chaos.

Back then, I didn’t know he was watching me with those fiery eyes, didn’t know he’d memorized the way I handled the crew, the terrain.

That mission was the first time I realized someone could match me move for move—and challenge me in all the right ways.

He reaches over now, fingers grazing my ankle with the quiet weight of a promise.

A jolt moves up my leg, not just from his touch but from the memory it sparks—the first time he ever laid a hand on me during a burn zone briefing, quiet but firm, grounding me when the radio screamed chaos.

Even now, with the fire behind us, that contact still anchors me.

My breath catches, heat unfurling in the center of my chest, spreading outward in slow, charged waves.

I remember the first time he handed me the unfinished pendant—how the metal was cool, yet seemed to respond to my touch, aware of me even then.

It’s different now, forged and fused, but the feeling hasn’t changed.

My boots are kicked off, toes stretching toward the golden light.

We don’t talk at first. We don’t need to.

Still, I can’t help but glance sideways at him, just long enough to catch the ghost of a grin playing on his lips. It’s the kind that says he knows exactly what I’m thinking, and maybe that he’s thinking it, too. "You remember that first burn we worked?" I ask, voice low.

Kade lets out a soft huff. "You mean the one where you nearly took the windbreak out solo because Command couldn't make a decision?"

"The very one," I say. "You looked at me like I’d lost my mind."

"Nah," he murmurs. "I was impressed. And maybe a little turned on."

I chuckle, nudging his thigh. "Only a little?"

He leans in, the grin deepening. "I said ‘maybe.’"

The teasing lingers like spice in the air, warm and bright, until the silence folds around us again—this time richer, full of old stories and new promises. The kind of quiet you earn.

Then the charge between us tips from playful to electric.

His thigh brushes against mine, and I feel the heat radiating from his skin, a stark contrast to the cool breeze that whispers through the leaves.

I lean closer, threading my fingers behind his neck, brushing the fine hairs at his nape.

My lips find the soft, warm skin just below his ear, where his heartbeat drums steady and strong beneath the surface.

He stills, drawing in a sharp breath, and that stillness speaks volumes, mirroring the unspoken words suspended in the space between us.

I alter my position to kneel between his legs, gently coaxing his back against the rugged surface of the rock as the wind curls around us, a sultry curtain imbued with the scent of heat and pine.

"Liv," he murmurs, his voice rough and filled with a reverent timbre that vibrates through the evening air.

Taking my time, I unbuckle his belt, the metallic clink a quiet symphony, and ease his jeans down with deliberate slowness, never breaking our steady gaze.

There’s no hurry, no doubt—only reverence and a possessive hunger rolling between us.

I want him completely undone here, in this sacred place where our hidden desires first burst into flame.

His breath hitches as my fingers close around him, warmth silky under my touch, and then my mouth surrounds him.

One hand slips into my hair, fingers threading the strands to anchor himself, yet he makes no move to direct me; we’ve long since mastered this.

Our rhythm is a dance refined through countless encounters, an intuitive choreography etched in muscle memory.

I swirl my tongue, teasing the sensitive tip before taking him deeper. A rough curse rumbles from his chest, thick with need, hips flexing toward me in answer to the pull of our shared desire. I explore every ridge and vein with devoted hunger, a soft hum vibrating around him, stealing his breath.

When he stiffens and whispers my name, a fervent prayer fractured by heat, I don’t relent until control shatters. His body convulses, shuddering against the unyielding stone, released and radiant in the aftermath of our blazing communion.

As I crawl back up to face him, nestling into the sanctuary of his arms, neither of us feels the need to speak.

No words could possibly capture the profound connection, the indescribable experience that we have just shared in this moment, transcending the tangible and entering the realm of the eternal.

We already chose each other.

He brushes a thumb along my cheek, and there’s nothing playful in his gaze now—just heat and truth. “Liv, I love you,” he says, voice low but certain. “I think I did before I even knew what that meant.”

My breath stutters. Maybe I always knew, but hearing it—spoken without restraint, without shields—lands deeper than any flame ever could.

“I love you too,” I whisper, letting the words fall between us, unburned and real. “Always have. Always will.”

I pull the chain from under my shirt. Star-iron, warm against my skin. His sigil and mine fused into one. The metal hums—soft, steady, a rhythm I feel more than hear.

He watches it sway, then pulls his own chain free to mirror mine. Our pendants catch the last of the light, glinting like they know they were forged in the same fire.

The sigils are more than matching. They’re reminders. Of survival. Of unity. Of the kind of love that doesn't just survive fire—it’s born from it. Star-iron, warm against my skin. The metal of the sigil hums—soft, steady, a rhythm I feel more than hear.

He pulls his matching chain, letting it swing.

"They’re synced," I murmur.

"They always were."

The last of the sun slips low, dragging shadows across the ridge. I lean into him, my shoulder to his, and we sit there breathing the same air, the same heat, the same unspoken vow.

Dax’s ringtone breaks the moment. Sharp.

Final. My stomach knots, reflexive and tight, like my body already knows we’re stepping into something bigger.

I hesitate for half a breath—torn between the stillness I finally found and the war I know hasn’t ended.

My body is still humming with the heat of him, of us, and part of me wants to stay buried in it.

Just a little longer. But quiet like this doesn’t last—not for people like us.

I answer. "Yeah."

"Operation Ash Vault," he says. "Denver briefing. Wheels-up at 0400."

I hang up. I already feel the weight of what we’re walking into—like the next fire’s already crackling on the horizon.

Part of me aches to pretend we could stay here just a little longer, in this space between war zones and deployments, with the heat of Kade’s skin still lingering on my lips and the comfort of our bond steady beneath my collarbone, a quiet force I can still feel.

But that isn’t who I am. Not anymore. I chose the fire—chose him—knowing damn well what it would cost.

And I’d do it again. pressing down, heavy and certain. But I also feel the press of metal at my chest—warm, steady. The sigil still glows with steady heat, its rhythm a constant reminder of what we’re fighting for.

I look at Kade.

He doesn’t ask if I’ll go. He just says, "We go together."

I nod.

And that’s all the promise I need.