Javier “Javi” Ruiz, 53, retired wildland fire crew boss, had only shown up to the annual crew reunion because his old captain threatened to drag him out of his cabin by his bootlaces if he bailed again. He’d spent the last three years holed up on his 10-acre property outside Bend, Oregon, fixing up old chainsaws and avoiding small talk that always turned to his late wife, Elena, gone to breast cancer two weeks after their 25th anniversary. His biggest flaw, he’d admit if pressed, was that he’d stopped letting anyone get close enough to remind him he wasn’t just a widower—he was still the guy who sang off-key to old Selena tracks when he was alone, who still snuck candy to every stray dog he came across on his hikes.
The bar reeked of fried cheese curds and cheap IPA, the jukebox spitting out Johnny Cash deep cuts between the roar of old crew members yelling about past fire seasons. He was leaning against the far end of the bar, half-empty beer in hand, planning his escape in 10 minute increments, when someone slid onto the stool next to him, their shoulder brushing his hard enough to make him jostle his drink. He turned to snap, and stopped. It was Lila, Elena’s younger cousin, the one who’d moved up to work as a backcountry park ranger right after Elena and Javi got married, who he’d barely spoken to at the funeral, who’d always had a streak of wildness that matched his own.
She smelled like pine and lavender lip balm, her calloused hand wrapped around a glass of bourbon on the rocks, a thin scar snaking up her left wrist from a run-in with a juvenile black bear two years prior. He’d seen photos of that scar on Elena’s fridge a hundred times. “You look like you’d rather be fighting a 10,000-acre blaze than be here,” she said, holding his gaze longer than strictly polite, no pity in her eyes, just amusement. He didn’t pull away when she passed him a bowl of salted peanuts, their knuckles brushing for a beat longer than accidental, the rough texture of her work-worn skin searing through the thin cotton of his old fire crew flannel.
The first twist of guilt hit him hard, hot and sharp in his chest. This was Elena’s cousin. Family. But then she started talking about the new wildfire risk maps the county had released that week, how she’d spent the last three weekends clearing brush off the south edge of his property when he’d been too drained to get to it, how she knew he hated asking for help. No one had noticed he’d been neglecting that edge, not even his old crew. No one had looked close enough.
She leaned in when she talked, her knee pressing against his under the bar, her voice dropping low when she joked about the time Elena had dyed his hair neon pink as a prank before his first big fire deployment. He laughed, a real laugh, the kind that made his chest ache a little in a good way, not the hollow polite chuckle he’d been using for three years. When someone knocked into her from behind, she stumbled forward, her hand landing on his thigh to steady herself, and she left it there for a full 10 seconds before she pulled back, her cheeks flushed pink, like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t.
The rain started tapping against the bar windows right as the clock hit 11, and he suggested they step outside for some air, no pretense, no pressure. The air was cool, sharp with pine, the rain light enough that it left little drops on her dark hair, beading on the collar of her park ranger jacket. They leaned against the side of his beat-up Ford F-150, no one talking for a minute, just listening to the rain hit the metal roof of the bar. He reached up before he could overthink it, brushing a wet strand of hair off her face, his thumb grazing her cheekbone. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, just tilted her face up a little, her eyes dark.
The kiss was slow, no fireworks, no desperate grabbing, just warm, her lips soft against his, her hand coming up to rest on the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in the curly gray hair at his nape. When they pulled apart, he didn’t feel guilty anymore. He felt light, like the weight he’d been carrying for three years had shifted just a little, enough to let him breathe. She asked him if he wanted to get pancakes at the 24-hour diner down the road the next morning, no strings attached, no big talk about what it meant. He said yes.
He tucked her cold hand into the pocket of his fire flannel as they walked back into the bar to say their goodbyes to the crew.
