Page 30 of The Fire We Crave

Smoke is a tall man, but even though Shane isn’t short either, it still feels as though Smoke has him utterly dominated.

“You should have been keeping watch, keeping her safe. I could have been anybody. But you were busy helping yourself to the shit Quinn made instead of patrolling the front of the property, like you’re some kind of?—”

“Smoke,” I shout, cutting him off. I throw the T-shirt I was about to hang into the laundry basket and hurry between them. “I told him to. And he checked from inside the house that the truck was yours. And he yelled out to me to let me know I was okay.”

His chest heaves as he sucks in air. “He’s supposed to be keeping fucking watch. Being vigilant. Not cozying up to you and walking through my home. Shit happens when you aren’t paying attention.”

“Sorry,” Shane says, raising his hands. “I promise, Smoke. Won’t happen again.”

I place my hand on Smoke’s chest gently and nudge him back from Shane. Even though his eyes remain on the prospect the whole time, he lets me move him.

Something tells me this isn’t about the lemonade. Or his house.

When Melody was taken, there was a lot of therapy in our house, at first. Lots of conversations about my parents’ hypervigilance when it came to me. PTSD, and how it presents differently in everyone, but often with common themes that link back to the original event that triggered it.

And I see that in Smoke now. There’s a lack of reasonableness in his response. It has to be something bigger than this moment.

“I’m okay,” I say, repeating the word until Smoke finally looks from Shane to me. “It’s okay, Smoke. I’m okay.”

He starts to calm, and I can see the wildness leave his eyes.

“You should go, Shane,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t reply.

But I see him out of the corner of my eye as he bends to pick the glass up from the grass and put it on the first step to the back porch before leaving down the side of the house.

I’m not even sure if Smoke plans to stick around for the rest of the day, but it’s safer for Shane if he isn’t here for Smoke to throw his temper at.

Smoke’s eyes drop to his chest, and he places his hand over mine.

“You’re okay, Smoke. So am I. It’s all okay.” The words are softly spoken. Soothing, like you would for a frightened child.

My heart hammers loudly in my chest, and it’s not just the adrenaline of the situation.

It’s the way I feel Smoke’s heartbeat beneath my palm. It’s the way his hand sits over mine, covering it completely, so strong and warm. It’s the way his thumb rubs over my fingers and the way his eyes darken with heat and arousal.

It’s his presence. The way we feel so…joined. His eyes raise to my lips as he runs his tongue over his lower lip.

Neither of us moves.

The world continues around us. Birds chirp, cicadas do their thing, but we’re stuck in a vortex. Swirling. Chaotic. All consuming.

“The prospects need to be protecting you,” he says finally.

But his voice is gruff, layered with nuance it’s impossible to interpret.

“And he was. Who was protecting you?”

“I don’t need protecting.”

I shake my head sadly. “I think you do.”

Smoke cups my cheeks before I have time to process, his hold firm.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, more to himself than to me, I think.

Then, he dips his head and kisses me.

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