Elias Voss, 62, spent 38 years perched on remote fire towers across western Montana, spotting smoke plumes before they bloomed into infernos. He retired three years prior, still lived in the one-room cabin he’d built 20 miles outside Missoula, kept his social interactions to a minimum—he’d long carried the weight of a 1998 blaze that killed his best friend and crew mate, Jase, and he’d convinced himself any close connection would only end in more pain. His only consistent companion was a three-legged hound named Red, and the only reason he’d agreed to come to the town’s annual fall craft beer festival was because his next-door neighbor had threatened to stop dropping off fresh sourdough loaves if he hid out for another year.
He was leaned up against a gnarled oak at the edge of the fairgrounds, sipping a hazy IPA that tasted like citrus and pine, scuffing the toe of his scuffed work boot in crumbled fallen leaves, when he spotted her. The mead booth was ten yards away, strung with fairy lights, stacked with glass jars golden as honey, and the woman behind the counter was laughing at something a customer said, sun streaks cutting through the dark hair she’d pulled back in a loose braid, laugh lines fanning out at the corners of her eyes. He recognized her immediately: Mara, Jase’s little sister. He hadn’t seen her since Jase’s funeral 25 years prior, when she’d been 19, quiet, wearing a black dress that was too big for her, slipping him a crumpled note that said none of this was your fault before she left with her family.
She spotted him a second later, her smile widening, waving him over like they’d seen each other last week instead of a quarter century ago. He hesitated, his first instinct to turn and walk back to his truck, but he rooted his feet to the ground, walked over, his palms sweating a little under the frayed cuffs of his old fire service hoodie. The air between the booths smelled like roasted almonds, hop resin, and the sharp, sweet scent of the fermented honey she sold. When she handed him a small paper sample cup of her dry mead, her fingers brushed his, warm and calloused from beekeeping, and he felt a jolt run up his arm that had nothing to do with the cool October breeze.
The bluegrass band playing near the main stage cranked up their set, so she leaned in, her shoulder pressing firm to his bicep, to talk over the noise. She told him she’d taken over her family’s apiary after her mom died five years prior, lived in the old farmhouse she’d grown up in, had gotten divorced six years back from a guy who’d hated that she’d rather spend her days with bees than at office happy hours. When he mentioned Jase, her smile softened, she reached out, tapped the scar slashing across his left knuckle—the one he’d gotten prying a fallen beam off a rookie firefighter the same day Jase died—and said she’d never bought the story that he was to blame. “Jase talked about you all the time,” she said, her voice low enough only he could hear, her eyes steady on his, no pity, just warmth. “Said you were the only guy he’d trust to have his back in any fire. He would’ve kicked your ass if he knew you’ve been moping all these years.”
Elias laughed, a rough, rusty sound he hadn’t heard come out of his own mouth in months. Part of him felt sick, guilty for even noticing how the sun hit her cheeks, for the way his heart picked up when she leaned in closer, for the fact that the kid he’d remembered bringing candy bars to after soccer practice was now a woman who looked at him like he wasn’t a broken thing to be pitied. He’d spent so long closing himself off, so sure he didn’t deserve anything good, that the pull of her attention felt like something he should run from, fast.
The festival wrapped up as the sun dipped below the mountains, the sky bleeding pink and orange over the treeline, vendors folding up their tables, the crowd thinning out to groups of friends laughing as they walked to their cars. Mara wiped down the counter of her booth, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and asked him if he wanted to drive out to her place, try the 10-year aged mead she only pulled out for people she liked, see the hives she’d built on the edge of the property. He almost said no, almost made up an excuse about Red waiting for him, about having an early morning cutting firewood. But then he looked at her, the way she was twisting the hem of her flannel shirt like she was nervous he’d say no, the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, and he said yes.
Her farmhouse was 15 minutes outside town, down a dirt road lined with aspen trees, the hives lined up in a neat row at the edge of a clover field, glowing soft gold in the dusk. They sat on her front porch swing, the wood worn smooth from years of use, drinking the aged mead that tasted like honey and oak and summer, crickets chirping loud in the grass around them. When she took his left hand, ran her thumb over the scar on his knuckle, he didn’t pull away. He told her he’d spent 25 years scared to let anyone get close, convinced he’d only end up hurting them, and she nodded, said she got it, that she’d spent six years turning down dates because she was scared anyone new would leave her too.
She leaned in then, slow, like she was giving him time to pull back, and kissed him, the mead sweet on her lips, the cool evening air stinging his cheeks. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulled her closer, the weight of 25 years of guilt lifting just a little, like a fog burning off the mountains at sunrise. Somewhere behind them, a loose hive box clicks shut in the soft wind, and for the first time in decades, Elias doesn’t feel the urge to run.
