Page 196 of Controlled Burn
They tangled in sheets that smelled of detergent and heat. His hands mapped every scar, every line of muscle earned in fire and fight. She clutched him back with equal force, nails digging, pulling, claiming.
When she came, it was soft and deep, his name spilling from her lips like a prayer and a curse at once.
When he followed, it was with a sound torn from the center of him—relief, ache, surrender.
They collapsed, sweaty and spent, the yellow dress twisted at the foot of the bed like a banner of survival.
He didn’t rescue her. She didn’t fix him.
They chose each other.
In the ash. In the wreckage. In the fire they’d built with their own hands.
Talia’s phone buzzed once on the nightstand—Kennedy’s name lighting up the screen.
She reached for it, then let it fall back into the dark.
Tomorrow could wait.
Tonight, she’d chosen this.
And he had chosen her anyway.
Epilogue
Embers at Dusk
The candles flickered against the smooth brick walls of their loft, throwing molten-gold light across steel beams and polished wood. The space still smelled faintly of smoke and fresh paint, as if the bones of the building remembered fire and survival both.
On the counter, a vase of red dahlias burned in the candlelight, petals open and defiant.
Talia hovered at the island, spooning saffron risotto onto two plates. The scent of garlic and jasmine threaded through the room, tangled with the faint trace of ash that never quite left her skin.
Dean leaned on a reclaimed-steel stool, denim sleeves rolled to his elbows, a glass of Merlot catching the low light. His scarred hands cradled the stem with surprising gentleness.
“You’re a natural at this,” he murmured, voice rough but soft in the hush.
Talia half-smiled, setting plates before him. “Only because you drilled me on precision and timing.”
His gaze drifted to the dahlias, shadowed and bright. “You taught me fire isn’t just about combustion. It’s about control.”
She settled beside him, fingers brushing his for a moment as she reached for her own glass. The gold band on her hand caught the candlelight. He saw it. Always saw it.
“How’s the new gig?” she asked.
He exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair, the old heaviness fading to something steadier. “Contract training—bouncing from station to station, teaching tactics. HR wanted me gone. Now they rent me out like a mobile captain.” He raised his glass in a half-salute. “At least I’m still useful.”
Talia laughed, low and real against brick and beam. “You’ve always been useful.”
Dean’s hand slid over hers, his thumb tracing the curve of her wedding band, reverent. “I should’ve fought harder to stay with you on the line. But this—” He gestured to the risotto, the candles, the flowers. “This is my new front.”
Her eyes softened, catching the flicker of flame. “We rebuilt together. Station life’s safer now.”
He squeezed her hand, quiet but certain. “Everywhere is safer when you’re with me.”
For a moment, the loft felt untouchable. Whole.
Then a tenor ring cut through the warmth.
