My mouth tightens. “And you were supposed to be in the chopper with us. Remember?”
That one lands. I throw it like a knife, because I’m angry and raw and bleeding out under my skin—and because he deserves to feel it.
He was the one who swapped shifts at the last minute. Said something came up, but wouldn’t meet my eyes when he said it. I remember standing at the tail of the chopper, wind rippingthrough my braid, looking for him on the pad. He wasn’t late—he just wasn’t coming. Sent Kent in his place without a word to me.
We all joked about it in the air, figured he’d been distracted by something and just lost track of time. But when the comms went dark and the ridge blew red, I realized he was never supposed to be there. Not that day. Not with us.
The one who gave that tight-lipped, 'Something came up,' without explanation. The one who smiled too easily when the wreckage cooled and only one of us made it out.
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t deny it. Just looks down, hands fidgeting in his pockets like maybe if he moves slowly enough, I won’t notice the blood on them.
Then he pulls out the ring box—the last thing I expected him to bring tonight. Part of me, stubborn and bruised, had hoped he came to apologize. To explain. To say something that would make the weight of all this feel less orchestrated. But no. Just this. One I haven’t seen since the day he slipped the band on my finger with shaking hands and too many promises. He opens it slowly, not like a man grieving, but like someone ticking off a final step in a checklist.
“I need it back, Liv.”
I glance at my hand. At the thin gold band with the small center diamond surrounded by baguettes that still sits there, heavier now than the gear I carried through the Bitterroot burn. My chest squeezes. But I slide it off, set it in the box, and close his fingers over it.
“There. Now it’s official.”
No more ring. No more box. No more plans written in ink on shared calendars. Just the quiet, deliberate end of thirteen months, and a future that once felt solid enough to build a life on.
Turns out it was paper. And it burned easily.
But even paper doesn’t catch without a spark.
“You knew they were going to pin it on me.” I say it flat, not a question.
I don’t need him to confirm it. I remember the way his face looked at the hospital after they pulled me out—dry-eyed, composed, like he’d already written the eulogy and filed the report. Not a single question. Not even a damn hug. Just that clipped nod and a retreat to whatever office let him close the door. The timing, the silence, the way he stood behind the brass and never once raised his voice in my defense—it’s all there.
“You knew," I accuse softly. "That’s why you weren’t on the bird.”
His jaw tightens. “I didn’t make that call,” he says quietly, eyes flicking past me like he’s already halfway out the door.
“No,” I murmur. “But you didn’t stop it, either. You let me walk into the fire alone. And now you’re just here to collect the last thing that proves you were ever a part of my life.”
He says nothing. Coward.
“I used to think you were the kind of man who’d run into fire for his people,” I whisper. “But you didn’t even call for water. You just stood by and did nothing—not for them, not for me.”
Danny turns and walks out without another word. And I don’t cry. Not then. Not later. I just lock the door behind him, light a match, and burn every picture we ever took together.
Let it all turn to ash.
Fine. I’ll gather what’s left of me, sift through the wreckage and betrayal, and start over. Not as who I was before—not the girl who trusted the system, or the man she thought would fight beside her—but as someone sharper. Someone who remembers how easily foundations crack when the fire comes from the inside.
Next time, I won’t be the one caught in the blaze... I'll be the one who lights it.
Fire Base Echo
Mogollon Rim, Arizona
Present Day
The wind turns sharp, laced with smoke and tension. I’m no longer where I lost my team. I’ve been demoted and moved into a training position, but the memory clings as I stand at the edge of a makeshift fire base carved into the side of a high mountain pass, surrounded by a ragged half-moon of engines, brush rigs, and portable water tanks.
The ground beneath my boots is dry and cracked, blackened with ash from a backburn set just hours ago. A wall of pine looms to the north, charred and still crackling. The sky above it is streaked with orange and gray. Every breath tastes like smoke and warning.
Lightning crackles overhead. I don’t flinch. The static sings across my skin, like the low hum building in my chest. Storms don’t rattle me—they reflect me. Controlled chaos. Quiet fury. And right now, all that intensity is focused on the man twenty feet in front of me.
