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She shrugged, tried to play it off like it didn’t matter, but deep down, it touched her how much he appreciated it. “Just don’t let it get burned up in a fire.”

He laughed, the sound low and full of something she didn’t want to name.

After a beat, he handed her a small box, wrapped in plain tissue and secured with a single piece of masking tape. “Your turn.”

She peeled off the tape and found a box inside—velvet, the kind used for jewelry. For a second, her chest went cold, thinking it was too much, too fast, but when she opened it, what she found was simple: a cross on a silver chain, delicate, no stones or flourishes.

She ran her thumb along the edges. “It’s…I don’t even⁠—”

“I know you don’t wear jewelry,” he interrupted, “but I saw it and thought of you. I thought, if anyone needed a reminder of hope, it was you.”

She held it up to the kitchen light, then looked at him, waiting for the joke or deflection. There wasn’t one. “Thank you,” she told him genuinely. “For knowing me so well.”

He took the chain, motioned for her to turn, and fastened it at the base of her neck. The silver was cold against her skin, but the warmth of his fingers lingered long after.

They finished the meal with slow sips of coffee, and when the quiet turned heavier, they moved to the couch. The house was colder in here, the draft under the door leaking in winter, but Desiree didn’t mind. Brandon sat, then patted the cushion beside him, and she sank down, resting her head on his shoulder.

For a while, they just watched the tree lights blink and fade. The silence was less full now, more peaceful, but Desiree couldn’t keep her mind off the plan in motion, the bait they were about to become, the arsonist still loose and lurking in the dark somewhere nearby.

She twisted the cross at her neck, rolled the chain between finger and thumb, and asked, “Are you scared?”

He turned, studying her profile. “Yeah,” he said. “But not for myself. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

She pressed her hand flat against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath the fabric. “I’m not scared because I’m here with you. I know you will protect me. You already have so many times since I’ve been here in Sweet Bloom.”

“And I always will,” he promised. “I won’t let anything happen to you, no matter what.”

They stayed like that, side by side, her hand on his chest and his arm wrapped around her shoulders, until the phone on the table blared to life. Brandon was up in a blink, snatching it before the second ring.

“Chief Holloway,” he answered, listening hard. His face changed, all business.

He clicked off and looked at her, already halfway to the door. “Dispatch got a call that someone passing by smelled gas at the station. No crew on scene besides Kimble since everyone is home for the holiday. I forgot that I volunteered a while ago to be on-call so everyone else can be with their family tonight. I need to go take care of this right now and make sure Kimble gets out if there is a gas leak. I’ll be back soon.”

She was up, jacket on, go-bag over her shoulder before he could even reach the doorknob.

“Let’s move,” she said, and the words came out steadier than she felt. “I’m coming with you.”

Outside, the wind had picked up, rattling the porch light and shaking the truck’s frame. The streets were empty, all the Christmas lights like sentinels blinking against the dark. She pulled the seatbelt tight, feeling the cross against her collarbone, and looked over at Brandon, who was buckling into the driver’s seat.

He glanced at her, offered the faintest smile, then gunned the engine. “Ready?”

“You know it.”

The fire station was lit by nothing but the wan streetlight at the corner of Main and Third, the front drive empty, no trucks in sight.

Brandon rolled the truck slowly up to the bay doors. He reached for the dash mic. “Dispatch, show Chief Holloway on scene. You copy?”

The radio spat static, then a voice, clipped and distant. “Dispatch here. Tried to reach Firefighter Kimble, but there hasn’t been a response. Confirm gas odor at location?”

Brandon pressed the button to speak again. “No visible smoke or crew. Please confirm original call.”

A longer pause. “Call cannot be confirmed. Originating number disconnected.”

He clicked off, jaw tight. “It could be a false call,” he said, but the words sounded hollow. “I still need to check on Kimble and make sure everything is all right.”

Desiree scanned the street, then the building. She opened her door, boots landing in a puddle that had already iced over. She turned a full circle, looking for movement—anything. Then, on the wind, a chemical tang, familiar and wrong.

“Brandon—” she whispered, just as the first window on the east bay shattered outward in a roar of orange.