Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 29299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
“It was the same layout,” he mutters.
My stomach drops. “What?”
“Two-story. Kitchen fire started near the back door. Same stupid open staircase.” His voice roughens. “I walked in and it was like my body remembered before my brain did.”
I move closer, slower this time. “What happened?”
He stops pacing. “Kid’s bedroom was upstairs. Father tried to go back in.” His eyes meet mine. “I held him back.” The words land heavy. “He was screaming,” Sawyer says. “Screaming like I was the villain.”
“You saved him.”
“I saved him,” he repeats hollowly. “His kid made it out. We got her down the ladder. But when I heard him yelling… it felt like—”
He cuts himself off.
“Like what?”
“Like I was back there.”
The house goes still.
He runs both hands through his hair, shoulders tight like he’s carrying weight again.
“I hate that it still does that,” he says quietly. “Nine years later and it still feels like I’m breathing smoke.”
I step in front of him.
“There’s not a timeline for trauma,” I say softly.
His eyes flash.
“I don’t get to fall apart either.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a father. Because I’m a firefighter. Because if I lose control, people get hurt.”
“You’re not losing control,” I say.
“You didn’t see me tonight.”
“Then show me.” The words hang there.
He looks at me like I’ve asked him to rip his own chest open.
“You want to see what that looks like?” he asks, voice low.
“Yes.”
His breath comes heavier now. “I walked into that house and for half a second I couldn’t move,” he says. “Everything in me froze.” He steps closer. “And I thought—if I hesitate again, someone dies.”
“You didn’t hesitate.”
“I did.”
“You kept going.”
He looks at me like I’m stubborn and impossible.
“Do you know what it’s like,” he asks quietly, “to live in constant fear that you’re one bad second away from losing everything again?”
I swallow.
“I’m starting to.”
His gaze sharpens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I care about you.”
The truth is raw. He goes still. “You wouldn’t if you knew what’s best for you.”
“Too late.”
His hand comes up, grips my waist. Not rough.
But firm.
“Do you have any idea what you’re risking?” he asks.
“I’m not fragile.”
“I’m not talking about fragile.”
His thumb presses into the small of my back, pulling me closer.
“I’m talking about the fact that if you get this deep with me,” he says, voice roughening, “you don’t get half of me. You get all of it. The grief. The fear. The nights like this.”
“I’m not afraid of that.”
“I am.”
The confession vibrates between us.
He’s scared.
Not of losing control.
Of losing again.
“You think living half-alive is honoring her?” I ask gently.
His jaw tightens. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” I say. “It’s honest.”
Silence. The clock ticks behind us.
“You loved her,” I continue. “You still do. That doesn’t disappear.”
“Don’t,” he warns.
“I’m not trying to replace her.”
“I know.”
“Then stop acting like I am.” His grip on my waist tightens. “I don’t want to replace anything,” I say. “I want to build something.”
His breathing shifts. “You make it sound simple.”
“It isn’t.”
“Then why are you still here?”
Because you’re worth it.
Because your daughter needs joy.
Because I love the way you look at me when you forget to be afraid.
I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I lift my chin.
“Because I don’t want a man who’s just surviving,” I say. “I want a man who’s living.”
His eyes darken. “And you think that’s me?”
“I think it could be.”
He studies me like I’m a risk assessment.
“You don’t get to rescue me,” he says quietly.
“I’m not trying to.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Standing here.”
The tension shifts.
His hand slides higher along my back.
“You should go to bed,” he says, but he doesn’t let go.
“You should stop hiding behind your badge.”
His mouth twitches slightly. “You think I’m hiding?”
“I think you’re bracing.”
He exhales. “And what if I am?”
“Then stop.”
His forehead lowers to mine. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not easy,” I whisper. “It’s brave.”
His breath brushes my lips. “You think I’m brave?”
“I think you’re terrified.”
A low, humorless laugh escapes him. “Of what?”
“Of being happy.”
That hits. His grip shifts, pulling me flush against him now.
“You think I don’t want that?” he asks quietly.
“I think you don’t think you deserve it.”
His body stills. The silence between us is thick and electric.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits.
“Do what?”
“Want something without assuming it’ll burn.”
I reach up, touch his jaw gently. “Then start small.”
His hand slides into my hair. “That’s not how I work.”
The air feels charged. Dangerous. His thumb tilts my chin. His breath catches. For a long moment, he just looks at me. Then he exhales like something heavy finally set down.
“I’m tired of just surviving,” he says quietly. “I’m tired of feeling like being happy is betrayal.” His hand slides from my waist to cradle my face. “You’re not asking me to forget.”
“Never.”
“You’re asking me to live.”
“Yes.”
The word is soft.
Certain.
His mouth hovers close to mine.
“I don’t want to live half-alive anymore,” he murmurs. “I just want to love you.”