Page 71 of Melting for the Firefighter

I bury myself deep and come inside her with a rough shout.

Afterward, I roll onto my side and take her with me.

Cora settles against my chest.

The room smells like flowers, warm skin, and us.

I press my mouth to the top of her head.

“Home,” I say.

For once, the word does not hurt.

Epilogue

Cora

TwoYearsLater

Founder’s Day is louder with a baby.

Everything is louder with a baby.

Our daughter squeals from across Main Street as Jordan lifts her onto his shoulders beside the fire engine. Her tiny flowered hat slips over one eye.

Lance fixes it immediately.

He has been watching that hat all morning as though it personally threatened her safety.

“She is fine,” I call from the flower booth.

My husband looks at me.

The word still fills me with warmth.

Husband.

Lance proposed three weeks after the fire with rosemary tied around the ring box. He told me he had already wasted two years and refused to waste another day.

We married surrounded by flowers, firefighters, and most of Whispering Pines.

Zain stood beside Lance.

Jordan cried harder than I did.

Tessa still claims she had allergies, though no one else reacted to the flowers by sobbing into the handkerchief.

The rebuilt Grandma’s Garden is brighter than before. Larger windows fill the shop with light, and updated wiring runs safely through fire-resistant walls. The workroom has enough space for three tables now.

The old apartment became a classroom where I teach flower arranging twice a week.

I never moved back into it.

Home is the house at the edge of town, where my dresses fill half of Lance’s closet, toys hide beneath every chair, and flowers appear in every mug he owns.

A loose page from Grandma’s journal, now framed, hangs behind the counter.

Love grows where it is tended.