Page 35 of Born in Fire

Who is this woman who’s derailed my control freak brother?

And what is Juno doing right now?

I fight back a smile at the thought of her. A spark of light amid the madness of the day.

Impulsively, I call up her name from my contacts and start texting her.

Just checking in. Hope you’re feeling better today.

A moment later, dots start moving as she types back a response. I imagine a smile curving her sweet lips as her fingers move across the screen. And somehow, despite the confusion, the pressure, and the insanity, everything feels right with the world once more.

Chapter 11

Juno

My apartment feels different when I return—not just because of the new deadbolt the building maintenance installed this afternoon (a temporary measure until tomorrow’s professional security upgrade), but because of how I move within it. More freely. More purposefully.

On impulse, I spend some time rearranging the furniture slightly, opening up the space. Fresh flowers that I bought on the way home—daisies, not lilies—brighten the coffee table. I’ve watered my herbs and added a new basil plant to the collection.

In the center of the room, my easel holds the sketch I made of Dorian after our first meeting. I study it critically now, seeing both its merits and flaws. I captured something in his eyes—that enigmatic quality that seemed at odds with his playful demeanor—but missed the warmth in his smile. The proportions are slightly off, but there’s life in the lines.

It’s the first heartfelt drawing I’ve done in years. Not perfect, but a beginning.

My phone buzzes with a text, and I smile when I see his name pop up on the screen.

Just checking in. Hope you’re feeling better today.

It’s just like him. No demands or expectations. I consider my response carefully, typing and deleting several versions before settling on honesty.

Much better. Made some changes today. Would you like to come over for dinner? I’m cooking.

His response comes quickly:

I’d love to. What time?

7:30?I type back, holding my breath.

I’ll be there.

I spend the next hour preparing—marinating chicken, chopping vegetables, setting the small dining table with actual placemats instead of eating on the couch, as I usually do. I change into a soft sweater and leggings, comfortable but flattering. I leave my hair down.

At exactly 7:30, there’s a knock at my door. I check the peephole—another habit I’m keeping for safety, not fear—and see Dorian standing there, a bottle of wine in one hand.

When I open the door, his expression shifts from casual confidence to something more complex. His eyes widen slightly as he takes me in, gaze traveling from my face to the apartment behind me.

“Hi,” I say, stepping back to let him in.

“Hi.” He hands me the wine, our fingers brushing. “You look… different.”

“Good different or bad different?” I ask, closing the door behind him.

“Definitely good.” His smile is warm but tentative, as if he’s not quite sure where we stand after last night. “Something’s changed.”

“A lot of things,” I agree, leading him into the apartment. “Wine opener’s in the drawer by the fridge if you want to do the honors. Dinner’s almost ready.”

He moves toward the kitchen, then stops, noticing the sketch on the easel. “Is that…?”

“You? Yes.” I feel a flush creeping up my neck. “I drew it after we met at the coffee shop.”

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