Loop.
Haul.
Drop again.
The cycle is brutal. Sweat is rolling down my spine, my helmet tight on my head, fingers cramping on the stick as I bank into another low hover. The chopper handles like a dream—tight turns, precise lifts. We’re the only ones who can get this close. The bigger birds can’t maneuver in these trees. But I can.
The fire cracks and groans, devouring a shed near the house as I douse the edge just in time. Scorched earth steams beneath me, the heat rising like a damn furnace. I can see people evacuating, dogs barking, someone clutching a baby in their arms, sprinting to a truck.
No fucking way am I letting this fire take their home.
“Smoke jumpers on deck,” someone radios. “We’ve got lines going in on the south end.”
“Copy. I’ve got your back.”
I follow their lead, cutting off the western edge, dropping water like a scalpel where they carve lines. It’s a long, grueling push. Trees fall. The sky burns orange. At one point, I’m flying half-blind through the haze, trusting gut and instinct and this machine to hold me steady.
And then finally…finally…the fire starts to give.
Containment holds. The homes are still standing.
We did it.
I exhale hard, radioing back in. “Pearson requesting clearance to head in for refuel and maintenance. Bird’s running hot.”
“Clear to return, Pearson. Damn good work out there.”
I don’t reply right away. My gaze lingers on the homes below, the pond now a muddy hole, the air thick with smoke but clearing.
Then I lift the chopper’s nose and fly for base.
And for the girl who was on my mind the whole damn time.
It’s past noon, the sun already high above the mountains by the time I land the chopper back at base. The rotors slow to a hum, the smoke and adrenaline finally bleeding out of me. My muscles are sore from hours of flying tight angles, and I’ve got soot caked along my jaw and neck. But none of that is what’s filling my chest right now.
It’s her. Ruby.
Fuck, I can’t stop thinking about her.
I lean back in the pilot seat for a minute, just breathing. The hangar’s quiet except for the clinking of tools and the occasional shout between mechanics. I should be focused on refueling, on filling out reports, on checking the systems. But all I can see is the way she looked this morning, her hair tangled from sleep, body still marked up from my hands and mouth, her lips swollen from how hard we kissed.
And the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
That soft doubt.
Like she didn’t fully believe I’d want more.
I fucking hate that. That she thinks I’d just take what I wanted and leave her behind. That she thinks she’s not the kind of girl a man stays for.
But I’m not conflicted. I’m not unsure.
I want her.
All of her.
Her mouthy attitude, her smart little brain, her messy heart. I want the morning-after smiles and the midweek bad days, and every sharp, sweet inch of her.
She’s mine.
