Page 110 of Smoke and Roses

“The best one,” I tell him. “The best day in seventeen years.”

I go back to the petals. Travis takes the broom out of my hands and leans it against the wall.

“It’ll still be a mess tomorrow.”

He takes my hand and walks me out the back door and across the gravel lot to my little house. The porch light is on. It’s always on. He opens my door with his own key. He’s had one since the furnace. When we go inside, the woodstove is already burning, because he snuck over at seven and lit it while I was cutting cake.

I stand in my living room in front of the fire and look at him.

“You lit my fire,” I say.

“You were busy.”

“You always light my fire.”

He looks at me with one eyebrow up.

“Not like that,” I say, and then I hear it, and I put my hands over my face. “Oh my God. Okay. Like that too.”

He laughs, and it sounds like it surprises him. Then he crosses the room, takes my hands away from my face and kisses me.

It’s nothing like the ravine or my front porch or the back of the delivery van. This kiss is slow and sure, and it isn’t in a hurry to get anywhere.

He undresses me in front of the woodstove, one button at a time. My sweater. My jeans. He kneels to pull off my wool socks, one and then the other, and kisses the inside of my ankle the way he did the first night, like he’s known all along that it turns my knees to water.

Then it’s my turn. I unbutton his flannel and pull his T-shirt over his head, and I put my mouth on the burn under his ear, careful of it. It’s still pink and shiny and healing. He got it pulling Novak out of that loft. He holds his breath while my lips are on it.

“A hundred and ninety,” I whisper against his skin.

“I know.”

“Don’t ever make me count again.”

He doesn’t promise. He can’t, and we both know it. He’s a firefighter. He turns his head and kisses me instead, and that’s its own kind of answer.

I go for his belt next. I fumble it so badly it takes me two tries, and he doesn’t help. The jerk. He stands there in the firelight and lets me work for it, with his jaw tight and his eyes on my face.

“You could help,” I say.

“I could.”

I finally get the button open. He stops being patient after that.

He takes me to bed. My bed, under my grandma’s quilt, with the firelight coming down the hall. He kisses his way down my body like he has nowhere else to be, and he keeps going until I’m shaking and clutching the quilt and begging.

“Travis. Please. Now. Please.”

“I’ve got you.” His mouth is on my hip. “Not yet.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

When he finally moves inside me, he goes deep and holds still, with his eyes on mine.

“I love you,” he says. “I told you I’d say it every day.”

“It’s night,” I whisper.