Page 19 of Let it Ignite
"Yeah, baby. Let’s go home."
Chapter 8
Cassie
A few months later
"You’re going to want to sit down for this," I say, trying to keep my voice even, but the smile threatening to split my face wide open won’t behave.
Byron arches a brow at me from across the living room, wiping his hands on a towel, his flannel shirt rumpled from fixing the busted curtain rod I accidentally pulled down. "Cass, I’m already sitting."
"Okay," I say, swallowing a laugh. My fingers tremble slightly as I spin my laptop around and tilt the screen toward him. "Read that subject line."
He leans forward, squinting, and then his eyes widen. "From Netflix?"
I nod, my throat tightening. "They want to buy the web series. The small-town one. The one I started writing about Silvertown Hollow."
He lets out a long, low whistle. "Holy shit."
And then he’s up, crossing the room in three strides, sweeping me off the couch with one arm around my waist and spinning me in a tight, dizzying circle. I laugh so hard I can barely breathe, my legs flailing as I cling to his neck.
"You did it, baby," he says, voice rough with pride. He sets me down gently but doesn’t let me go, pressing a kiss to myforehead, my cheek, my lips. "You made something beautiful. Something real."
"It’s not just mine," I whisper. "It’s ours. This town, this house, this life—we built this together."
“I can’t wait to tell Samira and Serena after the show.”
He smiles down at me proudly.
Byron’s sisters are coming over later—Serena, who’s married to the fire chief, Levi, and Samira, the youngest, who bakes cakes that taste like heaven. I used to be nervous around them, afraid I didn’t measure up, but they welcomed me like I’d always been part of their loud, chaotic, fire-loving family.
My chest feels full in the best possible way. We’ve been living together for a few months now, and every morning still feels like waking up in a dream. There’s coffee brewing when I come to the kitchen. Byron’s boots by the door. Rusty curled up and purring on my lap.Flannel shirts hanging beside my jackets. I write at the kitchen table while he tinkers with home projects or snoozes on the couch after night shifts. Absolute bliss.
Every time the fire alarm goes off, my heart lurches. But I’ve learned that love means letting your chest ache a little. Love means fear and hope living side by side. And I’d rather feel all of it than go back to chasing a dream that left me hollow.
Tonight is opening night of the community play I helped write and direct. A weird little comedy with too many costume changes and an improvised goat puppet. But the community turned out anyway—kids, old folks, the firehouse crew, even Mrs. Tilden who swore she was too fragile to walk up the church hall stairs.
Byron insisted on sitting front row. Clapping his giant hands together, he looks completely out of place next to Serena who’s wiping away tears with crumpled up tissues, despite the fact that the show was a comedy.
The curtain falls.
The crowd claps.
I step forward with the rest of the cast to take our bow, my cheeks flushed from the lights and adrenaline. I’m grinning when I turn—
And freeze.
Because Byron is onstage.
He’s walking toward me, eyes locked on mine, something in his expression so soft, so serious, it steals my breath.
The crowd hushes. Whispers ripple through the room. He stops in front of me and drops to one knee.
I gasp.
"Cassie Royal," he says, his voice steady even though his hands shake. "You wrecked me the day I met you. And every day since, you’ve made me believe in something bigger than just showing up to put out fires. You make me believe in staying. In building. In loving hard and loud and without apology."
My vision blurs. My hand flies to my mouth.
