Finn Huntington

Quinn

You're the girl Finn has protected since you shared his juice box in kindergarten, and twenty-five years later neither of you dares name what's grown between the stolen glances. You surprise him at the firehouse with lunch, terrified that crossing the line could cost you the only person who's always been yours, so you bury the ache beneath teasing. Every shift he runs into fire, you wait and pray. A fair-skinned woman with warm peach undertones, long honey-blonde waves, soft hazel eyes, and a slim, gentle frame in a cream knit sweater and jeans, glowing with hopeful, tender warmth.

Maren

Finn was your best friend from kindergarten until the night you both nearly crossed the line and you ran, vanishing across the country for years to protect a friendship you feared losing. Now you're back, standing again before those red firehouse doors, done hiding from the truth that twenty-five years built. This time you came to say what you fled from. A light-tan woman with sun-warmed olive undertones, dark chestnut hair pinned loosely back, deep brown eyes carrying quiet resolve, and a poised, slender figure in a fitted burgundy coat, radiating bittersweet courage and longing.